


Like Real People Do

by Kangofu_CB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cabin Fic, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Injuries, Canon-Typical Violence, Civil War Fix-It, Deaf Clint Barton, Flashbacks, HYDRA supersoldiers, Happy Ending, I honestly just wanted to watch these two idiots fall in love in a secluded cabin ok, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Texas Two Stepping is a thing, Things This Is Canon Compliant With: Nothing, Tropes, a small selection of violence, a tiny bit of angst, actually not true, but I'm not positive, found family trope abounds, learning to be people again, magic woodland archer cabin, or at least my version of it, possibly canon compliant with Captain America: TFA and also Iron Man, sniper assassin courtship rituals, sniper nerds, tags updated to include country music, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-07-08 20:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 67,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: And now Steve had brought him home like a goddamn found puppy he wanted to keep.“What the fuck, Rogers?” Clint asked, his hands itching for a bow, a gun, an anything, but not stupid enough to make any sudden moves.  There was no way to casually reach for the pistol he’d tucked into the back of his jeans, not with Steve so close and the Winter Soldier so unkillable.“He’s not the Winter Soldier,” Steve said in a rush of expelled air, reading the tension in Clint’s arms correctly.  “He’s Bucky Barnes.”Either there were two silver-armed motherfuckers running around - and Clint could believe anything at this point - or this situation was even more bizarre than he’d first thought.  And he knew bizarre.  He’d been part of a circus.A love story involving Billboard's Top 100, chopping firewood, and not looking like incognito serial killers when out on the town.





	1. If I Knew You Were Coming, I’d Have Baked a Cake

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly just wanted to watch these two morons fall in love in the middle of nowhere. This is the most self-indulgent garbage I've ever written and I love every page of it. 
> 
> I did try and incorporate the MCU timeline right up until the Sokovian Accords, because fuck those, but I'm not entirely sure I succeeded and I totally ignored canon at any point in which it suited me. 
> 
> No real warnings, but there is some mention of canon-valid torture/death/violence/whatever, but it's all pretty brief. I'll throw individual chapter notices up if they seem warranted, but in the end, this is supposed to be a fluffy love story. 
> 
> It's rated explicit, but you can expect this fic to take a while to earn the rating. I just don't like to trick people by starting out with a low rating when I know the fic is gonna get there eventually.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our intrepid heroes meet. 
> 
> Or: Steve Rogers needs a babysitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the interests of full disclosure, the cabin in this fic is entirely and one thousand percent based on the cabin I helped my grandfather build as a kid. So it probably makes absolutely zero sense to anyone but me and I'm fine with that. Imagine it however you like. Cabin in the woods. Much romance.

Clint was expecting the knock on his door.

 

He was expecting a delivery, even.

 

He was _not_ expecting to see the big, earnest, _familiar_ face on the other side instead of one of the Travers’ boys with his next load of river stones for the kitchen.

 

He hid his surprise well, he thought.

 

The farm was one thing - he’d burned that location completely during the Ultron debacle, the entire team knew about it now.  And possibly the entire internet, Clint wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been back since.

 

Only Nat knew about this place.  His home, his sanctuary, the place where Clint retreated to lick his wounds and hide from his self-appointed responsibilities.

 

It was a cabin, small, and rustic, that had started as a basement and grown upwards to include a main room, a bathroom, a bedroom, and running water.  It was thick and sturdy, had multiple exit points, and was highly defensible deep in the Smoky Mountains. It wasn’t in his name. It wasn’t, in fact, even in one of his _other_ names.   It was actually bought and maintained under a name Clint had lifted from the Social Security office in the nineties, and he’d only ever used it to buy the acreage.  It wasn’t - shouldn’t have been - connected to him in any way.

 

Except that Natasha knew about it.

 

Clint sighed.

 

“I need a favor,” Captain America said, and Clint knew, then and there, that he was fucked.

 

Could you say no to a goddamn American icon?  

 

Clint raised his coffee mug along with his eyebrow as he took in Cap’s appearance.  Baseball cap, an old jacket over an equally old t-shirt worn thin and stretched across his chest, three or four days’ worth of scruff on his face, and a dumb, hopeful look to match.  Clint hadn’t even known Captain America was _capable_ of skipping a shave. It was damn near unconstitutional.

 

And a really shitty disguise.

 

So it wasn’t Captain America he was talking to, it was Steve Rogers.

 

Clint was even _more_ fucked.

 

Steve had trusted him after everything, after Loki, after the helicarrier-

 

Anyway Clint owed Steve.

 

“Yeah, alright,” he said.

 

Steve blinked in surprise.  “You don’t want to know what the favor is first?”

 

Clint shrugged.  “I owe you one,” he offered, still sipping his coffee.  It was early February, the nights still bitterly cold enough to make sleeping near the woodstove necessary, but spring and more tolerable weather hopefully not far off. The hot mug was keeping his fingers warm, but the cold was seeping through his socks. “And Nat musta told you where to find me, so must be somethin’ she thinks I should do.”

 

Steve blinked at him again, surprise and relief warring on his features, before the relief won out and his shoulders slumped, tension released in a flood.

 

Ok, now Clint was starting to worry.

 

After Loki, after Sokovia, after _everything_ , Clint had come back here.  To regroup, to rethink, to retire - hell, he hadn’t quite figured it out yet.  Clint had been with S.H.I.E.L.D. a long time, and he’d been a shady character before that, and he’d been in the game long enough to know he was too fucking old and too fucking _normal_ to be in it anymore.  There were superhumans and demigods and mutants and flying suits and he was just one guy with good aim and a knack for getting out of trouble. He wasn’t much of a match for flying robot aliens or whatever the fuck came next.

 

The brainwashing was kinda shitty too.

 

So now he was in east Tennessee finishing up the cabin he’d been building, on and off, since Natasha had knocked him out of Loki’s cold, blue grasp, and trying to figure out how to finish up his career or whatever.

 

Steve flashed him a smile, one part grateful to two parts nervous, and turned his head to make a jerking motion towards the woods stretching out behind him.

 

One second, two, and then another figure stepped out from the trees, in the same shitty hat-ragged shirt-stubble disguise and Clint nearly choked on his tongue.

 

“You brought the goddamn Winter Soldier to my house?!”

 

More surprised blinking from the leader of the free world. “No, I- how’d you-”

 

“I see better from a distance,” Clint interrupted, the familiar phrase slipping over his tongue without thought, “and I can see his fuckin’ arm from here.”  The glint of a silver wrist between the dark red of a long-sleeved henley and the black of a leather glove had been enough to give him away.

 

Clint hadn’t missed the news coverage, either, of the Soldier’s attack on DC, of his street fight with Captain America.  Clint had been gone at the time, off chasing what turned out to be bullshit leads on A.I.M. activities that had amounted to nothing but meant that Clint hadn’t been in a position to provide cover for Steve during the fight.  Plus, he’d gotten a full sitrep from Nat after he’d gotten back.

 

And now Steve had _brought him home_ like a goddamn found puppy he wanted to keep.

 

“What the _fuck_ , Rogers?” Clint asked, his hands itching for a bow, a gun, an _anything_ , but not stupid enough to make any sudden moves.  There was no way to casually reach for the pistol he’d tucked into the back of his jeans, not with Steve so close and the Winter Soldier so unkillable.

 

“He’s not the Winter Soldier,” Steve said in a rush of expelled air, reading the tension in Clint’s arms correctly.  “He’s Bucky Barnes.”

 

Either there were two silver-armed motherfuckers running around - and Clint could believe anything at this point - or this situation was even more bizarre than he’d first thought.  And he knew bizarre. He’d been part of a circus.

 

“Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier?” Clint asked, flatly, as the man in question made his way to the house, climbing the incline from the trees with perfect ease. Bucky Barnes had died falling from a train in the Alps in 1945.  Clint had read the file. This entire situation was impossible.

 

Then again, aliens coming through a portal above New York City was impossible, so he was willing to leave some space for impossible things.

 

“Bucky Barnes _was_ the Winter Soldier,” Steve emphasized, and wasn’t it just fucking _like_ the guy to adopt a former assassin-

 

Clint cut that line of thought off.  In retrospect, this wasn’t out of character.  Especially in light of his history with Steve, or Clint’s personal experiences with the blond man.  

 

As the Winter Soldier, or Barnes, or whoever the _fuck_ got closer, the sense that the entire situation was surreal grew until it overwhelmed the feeling of unease Clint had been harboring since Steve had turned up on his porch.

Abruptly, he relaxed.

 

Either he was dreaming, or the Winter Soldier would kill him.  Wasn’t much he could do about it either way.

 

Turning his mug up, Clint was surprised to find it was empty.  Shouldn’t dream-coffee be bottomless?

 

“He found me after Christmas,” Steve continued, words tumbling out on top of each other as he hurried to explain, Clint unable to drag his eyes away from the graceful, lethal figure gliding up the hill towards his house.  “Confused and - Hydra had fucked with his memories, dug around in his brain until he didn’t know who he was, barely knew who I was. He’d finally managed to sort himself out enough to figure a lot of it out, but the shit Hydra did…  I think he wanted me to kill him, Clint, but Wanda managed to straighten him out.”

 

Clint’s gaze flicked back to Steve’s earnest blue eyes.  “You let the Scarlet Witch dig around in his brain?”

 

Barnes - or _whoever_ \- was close enough now that he could hear Clint’s words, and Clint caught the huff of sound he made, something that could have been amusement or exasperation or anything, really.

 

Steve opened his mouth to respond, looking affronted, before shutting it with a snap.  “Yes,” he answered, begrudgingly.

 

“Did that work?” Clint asked, and if the question sounded idle, it was only because Natasha had improved upon the training Clint had received from S.H.I.E.L.D. when it came to asking questions.

 

“Yes!” Steve answered, hotly, but by then the third member of this little soiree had made it onto the porch, looming menacingly just behind Steve’s left shoulder, and Barnes made another of the little noises - this one definitely amused, Clint thought, and he wondered if making the Winter Soldier laugh was an offense punishable by death - before Steve amended his statement.  “Mostly.”

 

“The Witch _mostly_ fixed your brain?” Clint asked, waiting to see what Barnes would say.

 

“She doesn’t like it when you call her that,” Steve muttered mutinously, but Barnes’ lips twitched into something that was almost a smirk.

 

“Wha’s not fixed was prob’ly broken before she got ahold of me,” Barnes offered, and his words were pure Brooklyn - all dropped r’s and drawled a’s.  “Triggers are all gone, anyway. All’s left is a lotta combat experience and a lil’ bit of James Barnes.”

 

“Huh.” Clint mused, before turning on his heel to go into the kitchen and refill his mug. It was getting colder standing there in sweatpants and socks, and there was more coffee in the kitchen.  There was always more coffee in his kitchen. “You comin’?” Clint called over his shoulder, where Steve and Barnes were still standing at the entryway watching him walk away. Casually - _oh so casually_ \- Clint pulled the gun out of his pants and placed it back on top of the refrigerator.  After his cup was full he held the coffee pot up in question, and Steve shook his head, but Barnes gave a short, jerky nod.  As the two of them made their way across the room to take seats at the unfinished bar, Clint pulled a second mug - his only other mug, actually - down from the cabinet above the pot and filled it up with the Barton Special.

 

Barnes accepted the mug suspiciously, and raised it to take a swallow.  After the first sip he looked down at the drink in surprise.

 

Steve snorted in amusement.

 

“If you don’t want it, give it back,” Clint said, taking the seat across from them. “It’s kinda an acquired taste.”

 

“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Barnes pulled the mug possessively closer. “It almost tastes _right_.”

 

“I don’t think rationed, reused grounds is really a good basis for comparison, Buck,” Steve added, voice tinged with some kind of fond amusement that made Clint feel squirmy.  He wasn’t good with _feelings_.

 

Clint had learned to make coffee in the circus - it was dark, it was bitter, and it would keep you awake for _days_.  It wasn’t coffee if it wasn’t trying to climb out of the cup and strangle you. Fuck all of that pumpkin spice bullshit.

 

“What’s the favor?” Clint said, instead, diverting the conversation back to whatever it was Steve had brought the fucking _Winter Soldier_ to his door for.

 

Every baby assassin knew about the Winter Soldier.  He was a something between a nightmare and a legend.  Not for his kill count - which was impressive, but not outrageous.  Nat’s count was probably higher.

 

Hell, Clint _knew_ his was.

 

But the Soldier was a ghost - he came, he saw, he killed, he killed everyone who saw, and then he disappeared, like smoke.  No evidence, no proof, no calling card. Just whispered rumors and boogeyman stories. And his targets were high-profile, hard to isolate, the sort of assassinations that made history books.   _Had_ made history books, if the rumor mill was even a little bit true.

 

Hawkeye was the man who never missed, but the Winter Soldier left no survivors.  

 

Except for the time he’d dragged a bruised and bleeding Captain America out of the Potomack, but who was counting that?

 

“Well,” Steve started, and the word was drawn out and uncomfortable in a way that only reinforced Clint’s suspicion that whatever it was, he wasn’t going to like it.  Before he could finish his sentence though, Barnes’ head whipped sideways, towards the long gravel drive that led to Clint’s property.

 

A few seconds later he heard it - the crunch of wheels on gravel. Even Clint’s top-of-the-line Stark tech hearing aids weren’t as good as the Winter Soldier’s ears, apparently.

 

Probably his damn river rocks being delivered.

 

Still, Clint motioned towards the closed door on the other side of the room, the one that led to the bathroom and bedroom set up.  And to the stairs down to the basement, which had its own exit. If it wasn’t the rocks, at least Steve and Barnes could go out that way.  The two of them exchanged a look before getting up and slipping silently through the door, closing it behind them.

 

There was a narrow, vertical window in the room, just wide enough to let in a little light.  And let out a well-aimed arrow. They’d be able to see and not _be_ seen.

 

Clint snagged his gun and wandered out to the porch, looking for the vehicle headed his way.  Sure enough, a familiar, beat up red Ford pickup rounded the bend, back end loaded with the dark, charcoal-colored river rocks, wide and flat and dull in the morning sun.  In the front seat, Clint could see the sandy brown hair of the two Travers boys, Justin and Tim.

 

They’d brought Lucky back, Clint noted with some relief, a welcome furry head hanging out of the passenger side window, tongue lolling out of its mouth.  Not that he’d really been _worried_ about his dog.  The boys watched Lucky whenever Clint was out on ‘business’, and while the dog was always happy to see them, he was always happier to be home.  The truck was pulling into his yard within just a few more seconds, Justin backing it up next to the porch and a tarp that Clint had laid out in the grass just for this occasion.

 

Stuffing his feet into his boots, Clint ambled down the stairs towards the vehicle, grateful for the hoodie he’d pulled on before he answered the door for Steve.  The bed was weighed down with the heft of the rocks, and Clint looked the load over with a practiced eye. The countertop that he’d been sitting at with Steve and Bucky moments before had about an inch deep lip around the edge, waiting for him to fill and level it with the rocks and then seal it against moisture, and he figured this load ought to be just about enough.  Both boys climbed out of the truck, Lucky bounding down ahead of Tim, who’d been nearly in the drivers’ seat, shoved over by the heavy retriever. Clint knelt on the grass to greet the animal enthusiastically.

 

“There’s my boy, how’s it goin’ Luck? You behave yourself for these troublemakers?”  

 

Lucky was all butt wiggles and panting dog breath and sloppy kisses, and Clint was nearly bowled over by both his enthusiasm and how much he’d missed the dog.  After a few minutes of well-deserved scratches, Clint stood back up, brushing his hands off on his jeans. Justin and Tim were both standing at the back of the truck expectantly, Tim lowering the tailgate when he noticed Clint’s attention.

 

“I’ll give you both an extra fifty bucks if we can get all this unloaded in less than half an hour.”  Clint needed both boys gone as quickly as possible, and while they always helped him unload whatever they delivered - their dad owned the local lumber mill _and_ the quarry, and Clint was a reliable customer - it never hurt to give them a little extra incentive.

 

“Without breaking any of the stones,” Clint added, as their eyes widened and Tim scrambled into the back of the truck.  Justin had just turned eighteen, if Clint remembered right, and Tim was going to be sixteen pretty soon. They both played football for the local high school, and Justin was due to graduate this spring. He’d had high hopes for some kind of college scholarship - he was a good player - but he hadn’t been quite that lucky, and Clint figured he’d spend a few months of screwing around over the summer, then buckle down to work at the quarry and take business classes at the community college in town.

 

Clint could just about smell the disappointment wafting off of the kid, but there wasn’t much he could do for him.

 

“Alright Mr. Bailey,” Tim piped up, referring to the false name, Charles Bailey, that Clint used to do business down in the small town closest to his home.  The teenager moved further onto the bed of the truck, ready to hand the large, flat rocks over to his brother and Clint, who would set them down on the nearby tarp.  It was a system they’d established pretty easily when Clint had used the rocks in his bathroom shower. The sun was rising higher over the horizon, finally breaking over the treetops, but it was still cold as hell. Didn’t matter though, because within just a few minutes all three of them were still sweating from exertion.

 

When it was done, it had taken 35 minutes to unload the rocks and arrange them into piles sorted by size on the tarp, but Clint still handed both boys fresh, crisp fifty dollar bills before they climbed back into the cab of the truck, clapping both of them on the shoulder in thanks and waving them off, the two of them grinning at their unexpected luck.

 

With a sigh, Clint turned and headed back into the house, whistling for Lucky, who had plopped himself down in a patch of sun while Clint and the teenagers did all the hard work.

 

Time to see what kind of trouble Captain America had brought to his door.

 

Besides the Winter Soldier.

 

When he got inside, both men were just making their way out of the bathroom, most of the tension that had been around their eyes gone with the departure of the unknown element.  Before Clint could say anything though, Lucky bounded through the door and headed straight for them, all wagging tail and happy dog smiles.

 

“Lucky!” Clint called, but the stupid mutt ignored him - the dog never fucking listened to him, if he was being honest - and didn’t so much as slow down as he ran full tilt towards the world’s most infamous assassin and his best, stupid friend.

 

To Clint’s utter shock, the dog barely gave Steve a sniff, and instead ploughed face first into the Winter Soldier’s crotch, sniffing and squirming, and making that stupid whining happy noise that had first convinced Clint to bring him home, despite his unreliable lifestyle and aversion to adulthood.

 

If asked under torture, Clint might have admitted to being lonely and a sucker when he saw the dog scrounging around town, all one-eyed and pitiful looking, just a couple of months after he’d moved into the cabin properly.

 

Steve turned wide eyes on Clint, who shrugged.  

 

Barnes reached down, tentatively, with his non-cybernetic murder hand, to scratch behind Lucky’s ears.  Lucky promptly tilted his head sideways for better access, and then planted his not-inconsiderable weight on Barnes’ feet, preventing him from moving.

 

“Your dog’s got terrible taste in people,” Barnes finally said, after several minutes of soft scratches and whining noises, both Steve and Clint staring at the pair of them in disbelief.

 

Clint snorted.  “Yeah man, I already knew that, he likes me.”

 

Barnes knelt down on the ground, still scratching Lucky, who whined _even louder_ in happiness and did his best to lick him in the mouth, his entire body wiggling in excitement.

 

Rolling his eyes, Clint headed back to the kitchen for his coffee mug.

 

“So what’s this big favor, Cap?”

 

Whatever hesitance Steve Rogers had been harboring before Clint went outside seemed to have vanished in the face of his murder buddy on the floor with an overgrown puppy trying to lick him to death.

 

“Bucky needs a place to lay low for a while.”

 

Clint sighed.

 

He was so, so fucked.

 

Steve kept rambling, but Clint wasn’t really, truly, paying that much attention.  It was something about Africa and something about Sokovia - which was the point where he’d checked out entirely because Clint didn’t even want to _think_ about Sokovia - and something else about the United Nations and finally he interrupted just to stop the flow of words.

 

“Cap, I already said yes.”

 

Steve blinked at him in surprise, and Barnes made the same quietly amused huffing sound Clint had heard on the porch.

 

“But,” Clint continued, now that he had Steve’s focus, instead of the word vomit that had been going on for the past ten minutes, “why me? Why here? Why now?”

 

The look on Steve’s face shifted from surprise to guilt and Clint sighed again.

 

“The team and I are going to Luxembourg, there’s been some talk with some of Natasha’s sources, rumors about Hydra resurgence, and it’s worrisome enough that we need to go check it out.  We might be gone a while.”

 

Clint shrugged, sort of gestured at the partially finished space around him.  It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. “Ok but why _here_?  No offense, but couldn’t Tony set you up with something a little more… more?”

 

A muscle in Steve’s jaw jumped and he averted his eyes, turning back to look at where Barnes was still crouched on the floor with Lucky.  “Tony’s got other things on his mind. He’s not exactly-”

 

“Someone sent him footage of me killing his parents,” Barnes said flatly, interrupting whatever Steve had been about to say.

 

Clint blinked at him. “You killed Tony’s parents?”  He’d thought Tony’s parents had died in a car accident - in fact he was pretty sure he’d read that in Tony’s S.H.I.E.L.D. file. Plus, the timing was oddly convenient that Tony had been supplied with that sort of information just as Barnes had decided to come in out of the cold.

 

“The Winter Soldier killed Tony’s parents,” Steve said, before Barnes could answer, but Clint didn’t turn to look at him.

 

He was still looking at Barnes, who had finally raised his gaze to meet Clint’s eyes, and some unspoken communication passed between them.  Clint knew all about the sort of guilt he could see floating behind the steely grey gaze.

 

Clint hadn’t made the choice to kill all those people under Loki’s influence, but it had still been his hands that had drawn the bow.

 

Steve seemed oblivious to the moment, and kept speaking.

 

“There’s no one in New York that Bucky can call if something happens.  Natasha and I are going to be off-grid with Wanda, and I want someone I trust to be available if something happens.  I know you have ways of getting in touch with Natasha, if something comes up. And our current safe house isn’t exactly hard to find.  Buck’s had to keep a pretty low profile.”

 

Oh that’s right, the Winter Soldier was still a wanted fugitive.  Good to know.

 

Clint pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“The Winter Soldier is an infamous assassin,” he said, instead, wishing he’d never gotten out of bed this morning.  He could hear the capitulance in his own tone, though, and they all knew it.

 

“Bucky Barnes is a war hero,” Steve countered.  “The Winter Soldier is a myth.”

 

“You already said yes, Barton,” Barnes added, smirking.

 

This was going to be a disaster.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly despise the idea that all of the fucking superheros can go around pretending to be hidden by aviators and baseball caps. STOP. THAT. It's a recurrent theme here. 
> 
> I think it's really shady that Clint was unavailable when the Winter Soldier showed up to murder Steve, because gosh wouldn't a sniper have been handy to have during that altercation, so I have handily explained away his absence.
> 
> I tried to google official hit counts for Clint, Nat, and Bucky and that was... more complicated than I felt like dealing with and decided that Clint feels personally responsible for every single person who died in the helicarriers and therefore that makes his the highest the end thanks for playing.
> 
> And yeah I know I borked the Civil War timeline with the Tony's parents business, but this is a Civil War fix-it, I do what I want.


	2. Travelin’ Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reluctant roomates.
> 
> Or: Clint adopts a stray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: some mentions of canon-compliant brainwashing, torture, and the mental aftermath of both.

Clint tried not to watch Barnes and Steve say their goodbyes.

 

They’d all wandered out to the porch following Steve’s roundabout explanation and Barnes’ confession, while Clint had tried to make himself scarce, moving towards the unfinished side porch to contemplate his next steps on the project.  His own paranoia, however, had made him unable to let Steve and Barnes completely out of his sight as they moved back towards the edge of the trees where they’d first appeared. 

 

They were, Clint noted with relief, too far away for him to read their lips.  He wasn’t called Hawkeye for no reason; his vision was better than exceptional.  He could see the tensing of Barnes’ jaw and the worried furrow in Steve’s brow, but he couldn’t make out the words they exchanged.

 

Clint had offered Steve a ride back to town.  He wasn’t sure exactly how they’d made it onto his property, but he highly suspected they’d walked in - both men had extensive experience traipsing all over Europe, after all, and the few miles from town wouldn’t have been taxing to either of their supersoldier staminas - and it was only confirmed when Steve declined his offer, saying he had arrangements to meet Sam Wilson at the local diner.

 

Steve reached out and squeezed Barnes’ right shoulder with his left hand before pulling him into a backslapping hug, and Clint averted his eyes.  On a whim, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, texting Nat.

 

_ Coulda warned me to expect company. And your boy needs some help in the believable disguise department _

 

He paused, smirking, and then sent off a second text.

 

_ Your boy’s boy needs even more help did Cap pick out his dumb hat? _

 

He shoved the phone back into his pocket, not expecting any sort of response.  Nat rarely indulged his whims.

 

Surprisingly, his phone vibrated against his thigh only a few seconds later, as Clint was making his way down the back steps towards the piles of river rocks.  

 

_ You’re grossly misinterpreting their relationship.   _

 

Clint snorted a laugh and was halfway through a response when he got another text. 

 

_ Care to make a wager?   _

 

He tapped the phone against his chin and hummed thoughtfully to himself.  Natasha didn’t typically make bets that weren’t guaranteed to either benefit her or further her goals in some way.  He couldn’t imagine what her angle here was, but that definitely didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

 

Barnes was going to be stuck with him for an indeterminate amount of time before Clint returned him to Steve’s - and presumably Natasha and Sam’s - loving bosom.  What could Clint do in an undefined amount of time to prove he was right? Plus he was working with a very big handicap - a very big, metal arm shaped handicap.

 

Still. He was sure there was something he could do.  Natasha was  _ challenging _ him, and Clint never could back down from a dare.

 

His hands flew over the phone’s digital keyboard.

 

_ Sure why not when I win I want the access code to your safe house in Bora Bora.   _

 

He pictured Nat rolling her eyes.   Clint wasn’t actually sure she had any kind of safe house in Bora Bora, he just strongly suspected.  Or maybe it was wishful thinking. 

 

_ When I’m done with your boy’s boy, your boy won’t even recognize him. _

 

Goading Nat was nearly impossible, but it never stopped Clint from trying.  He wasn’t disappointed by her response.

 

_ Still wrong about their relationship.  Fine. Cap gets IM autograph, unnoticed, at a public event.  I get your ceramic throwing knives. _

 

Aw man, that was rough.  Clint really liked those knives, he’d had them specially made.

 

_ Harshing my buzz.  Rude. Fine, but I want documented video evidence. _

 

Natasha didn’t respond, but Clint didn’t expect her to.  Nat wasn’t much for idle conversation.

 

Glancing over at the treeline, Clint tucked the phone away again and watched as Steve melted into the trees and Barnes reached over to haul a half-filled sea bag over his shoulder.  Clint grinned at the sight - apparently you could take the boy out of the army, but you couldn’t take the army out of the boy. Barnes hiked back up the incline, and Clint moved to meet him at the base of the porch steps, gesturing him up.

 

“Ten cent tour?” Clint asked, and Barnes shrugged in response.

 

Tour it was.

 

Barnes followed him back into the house, and Clint flapped his hands at the open area living space. He’d already seen it anyway, wasn’t like there was much to say.

 

“Living room, kitchen, etcetera. Gas range. The wood stove is the only heat source.  Water comes from a well on the property. Electricity is solar, I can show you the panels later if you’re interested.  No air-con, it’ll get pretty hot in the summer. I have a window unit in the bedroom for that.”

 

Clint had wanted the cabin to be off-grid, as much as possible.  He’d spliced the cable, and everything else was self-contained. The whole cabin had a long history, in fact, starting about twenty years previous, when he’d first bought the land it was sitting on.  

 

Barnes followed him through the door that led to the bedroom and bathroom, and there wasn’t much to say in that regard either.  The bathroom was medium-sized and functional, with a shower inlaid with the same river stones as he was planning to put in the kitchen bar, though he’d splurged on the showerhead.  There was a toilet, a single sink with under counter storage and a small linen closet. A door to the right led into a fairly large bedroom. Clint had the bed pushed against the walls in the corner, invisible from the window in the room.  A dresser was positioned next to it, further blocking sightlines, and there was a small-ish recessed closet on the far wall. Clint walked over to the dresser and quickly shuffled what little was in it into the three bottom drawers. He’d never kept much stuff anyway.  

 

Never had much stuff to keep.

 

“You can put your clothes and shit in here,” Clint offered, and Barnes dropped the seabag on the floor next to the dresser hesitantly. It made a surprisingly pronounced rattling sound, and Clint wondered what was in it besides the clothes he’d assumed.  Probably weapons, if he had to guess. “I can get another dresser next time I go into town, or something, but at least you don’t gotta live outta the bag.”

 

Barnes didn’t answer him, and Clint jerked his head towards the doorway. “C’mon, I’ll show you the rest.”

 

Back through the bathroom there was a second door, one that led to a narrow stairway down into the basement under the cabin, cinder block walls, steel shelves, and damp darkness.  Clint flicked the lights on so that Barnes could get a good look. At the moment the basement mostly functioned as a workshop, with a lathe Clint hadn’t quite gotten the hang of yet, along with tool storage and a half dozen partially-completed projects scattered around.  To the far side was a small kitchenette-type area, or what had been one, but was now just metal countertops with assorted bits piled on them and a sink. The cabin had started as this cement and steel box, built into the side of the hill that Barnes and Steve had climbed to get to his porch.Three sides of the basement were embedded in earth, but the fourth side actually opened up underneath the side porch of the house, out of sight of the drive, providing a convenient entry or exit point, and a third way out of the house, besides the front and back doors.

 

“Second exit,” Clint pointed out. “Also laundry is through there.”  

 

Barnes poked his head through the doorway and took in the ancient washing machine, utilitarian shower, and the exterior door that led to a small covered patio where Clint kept his truck, table saw, and an attachment for a laundry line.  The ex-assassin seemed relieved to have another way out, which was most of the reason Clint had shown it to him.

 

The cabin had a lot more secrets, but Clint wasn’t ready to divulge them just yet.  Even Natasha only knew the cabin existed, not how it came to be or why Clint kept it.

 

“Well that’s it,” Clint said, after a minute or two of awkward silence. “Home sweet home.”

 

Barnes gave him a look that clearly stated he knew that wasn’t it, but he didn’t press the issue.

 

“Make yourself at home,” Clint offered, maneuvering around the other man and out the exterior door.  “Mi casa su casa.”

 

Behind him, Barnes snorted, but Clint didn’t turn back to see if the amusement in the noise reached his eyes.  He had rocks to wash.

 

The rest of the morning passed in relative ease.  Clint hosed down the rocks from the quarry, rinsing grit and dirt off and looking at the color more closely after they were damp, because it was more true to how they’d look under the sealant, while Barnes - he assumed - unpacked his meager belongings.  Clint saw him slink out of the house and into the surrounding woods not long after he started his task, and he didn’t see the other man again for several hours. Clint went inside at lunch time and made a plate of sandwiches that he took back out with him, leaving half the stack on the porch for Barnes while he went back to his work, and the next time he looked up they were gone.

 

It was a bit like feeding a stray cat, he couldn’t help but feel.

 

*

 

The day went reasonably well, considering he had a twitchy former assassin on his property, and Clint wasn’t exactly a poster child of relaxation.  Barnes disappeared after the tour, and Clint assumed he was out roaming the fifty-plus acres of land his cabin was situated on, assuring perimeter security or whatever, or maybe just avoiding Clint, seeing as how they weren’t exactly friends.  Clint, for his part, turned on his radio exactly the same as he did every other day, and went about his business, Lucky following him around whenever he felt like it. After the sandwiches he’d started hauling river rocks into the kitchen and arranging them in the bar top until he got them just how he wanted them.  Eventually he’d worked up enough of a sweat, despite the chill, to lose his hoodie and tool around in nothing but his long-sleeved t-shirt. 

 

Somewhere in the middle he’d gotten another text from Natasha, an unnamed file that, when he opened it, was clearly a briefing on Barnes.

 

_ Bit invasive Nat. _

 

He sent the text off without expecting a response, and he was still struggling with whether or not he wanted to invade the other man’s privacy to that degree when she texted back.

 

_ It’s the condensed version.  Comparable to what he already knows about you.  _

 

He added that to his mental math.  Frankly, just about everything about Clint was now on the internet, thanks to Natasha’s data dump.  For that matter, there was probably some amount of information about Barnes in that dump as well. Clint hadn’t gone looking to see what was out there - he didn’t want to know about S.H.I.E.L.D.’s evaluations of him, or their speculations, and he certainly didn’t want to see the results of the mandatory psych evaluations he’d gotten just after the Loki debacle.  The only things about Clint’s life that weren’t freely available were the ones he’d never told S.H.I.E.L.D. to begin with. Like the apartment complex in Bed-Stuy that Katie Kate had found someone to manage in his absence. Lucky. Things like this cabin, safehouses and the fake identities he’d never quite been able to give up, afraid he’d have to run. 

 

It’d come in handy, as it turned out, which was just another bitter disappointment in his life.

 

Handy also, was that Clint was, like, the fifth favorite Avenger, or at least so low on the totem pole of public opinion that no one seemed all that interested in his seedy past, and it made hiding in small towns relatively easy.  No one looked twice at a middle-aged man who kept mostly to himself. He knew the people in town figured him for a vet, based on his solitude and probably the way he watched his surroundings, and he didn’t do anything to disabuse them of the notion.  It was good cover.

 

Nat texted again, and it was borderline creepy how well she knew him.  Like she could see him debating with himself and wandering off on mental tangents.

 

_ I wouldn’t send anything invasive on an insecure channel.  Just read the file. Don’t trigger the man. _

 

Clint skimmed the file, just so he could say he had, the triggering being a good point, and when he was done his stomach was churning with nausea.

 

At least when Loki had unmade him, it had happened in an instant.  Clint remembered a second of terror, of freezing blue light pouring over his vision, and then there was nothing except the driving  _ need _ to do whatever Loki wanted.  Clint hadn’t eaten or slept or done anything except exactly what he’d been told, and part of the reason he hated it so much was because he hadn’t  _ wanted _ to.

 

He’d never fought for control, though he remembered it all with a sense of horror.

 

Clint just wasn’t sure if the horror was in the rememberance or if he’d felt it at the time.

 

But Barnes didn’t get an instant of unmaking and three days of horror - he got seventy years of torture and conditioning and cryotubes and Clint could read between the lines enough to know he’d fought every step of the way, including his final mission, where he’d fought with himself as much as with Steve.

 

When Clint closed the file he rubbed absently at the scar on his left forearm - the perfect circle of Nat’s teeth in his skin.

 

Amongst the other things he and Barnes had in common, it really sucked to know that ‘tried to kill the one person who’d always had complete faith in him’ was on the list.

 

Barnes came back just as darkness was settling and Clint was shoving frozen pizzas in the oven.  It wasn’t gourmet but Clint was tired and hungry and gritty, and Barnes had probably eaten worse.  Clint set the timer on the microwave and gave Barnes a wave of acknowledgement on his way to the bathroom.

 

“Shower,” was all he said as he brushed past the other man.

 

In the bathroom he cranked the temperature up nearly as high as it would go.  Clint liked his showers both boiling hot and excruciatingly short.

 

Clint hated silence. 

 

It was probably some kind of irony, all things considered, what with the deafness and all.  He’d never really enjoyed the sound of silence, especially after his asshole of a father figure had literally beaten the hearing out of him, but a complete lack of sound now tended to precede a kind of anxious jitteriness that Clint preferred to avoid.  It was ok if he was on a mission, silent and waiting to shoot or waiting for instruction, but day-to-day, hour-to-hour, the sound of Clint’s own pulse and ragged breathing - or worse, the absence of those noises, and just the feeling of his heartbeat in his throat and the rush of air in his lungs - was enough to make his palms sweat.  It made no sense, since the time he’d spend under Loki’s control was anything but silent - it was, in fact, punctuated by the screams of the dying and flashes of blue, or at least it was in his memory - but something about the silence without his aids reminded Clint a little too much of the three days he’d spent being Loki’s hand puppet.

 

So he did his level best to make sure it was never silent. 

 

And he only went without his aids when it was absolutely necessary.

 

Like in the shower, or for the few hours of snatched sleep he managed every night.

 

Lucky helped with the sleep thing - curling up on Clint’s feet or behind his back, but there was nothing for the soundlessness of the shower, except Clint’s own voice rumbling through his chest as a distraction.

 

So he sang in the shower.  He’d pretty much always done that, but in the aftermath of the battle of New York, he did it fervently.  It drove Natasha crazy, which was a kind of added bonus.

 

The look on Barnes’ face when Clint tripped his way down the stairs into the living room after his shower, still pink from hot water and wrapped up in old, soft sweats, was enough to knock Clint out of his maudlin thoughts.

 

“What?” he asked, scrubbing a towel through his damp hair.

 

“Well,” Barnes drawled, a small smirk inching its way onto his face, “your caterwauling ain’t bad, but what the hell were you singing?”

 

Clint blinked at him.  “Aw, music, no.”

 

“What?” 

 

Clint gestured wildly.  “You missed-” everything, his mind supplied.  The Beatles. AC/DC. Fucking Elvis. The Winter Soldier wouldn’t have been kept up to date with the latest pop culture trends. Oh God, Clint had to fix this.  “Music,” he finished, after a moment, at a loss for anything more explanatory. 

 

Barnes face closed up like a book.  “Yeah. Steve has- he has all these lists and albums and this  _ notebook _ and he was going in chronological order, and Sam bought him Troubleman, but yeah.  I missed music.”

 

Of course Steve had  _ lists _ .  Steve had a  _ plan _ .  Clint didn’t believe in plans.

 

“Yeah, no. We’re not doing that.”  He thought for a second while Barnes just stared helplessly at him.  

 

“What are we doing then?”

 

Clint grinned.  “Do you have a cell phone?”  Barnes shook his head mutely.  “Can you  _ use _ a cell phone?”

 

Barnes looked indignant.  “I’m not  _ Steve _ .”

 

That was fair. Hydra hadn’t wanted Barnes to be a  _ person _ , but they’d have wanted him to be able to use technological advancements.  Like sniper rifles fashioned after 1945. That made sense. For a second, Clint got hung up on the fact that they’d probably given the Soldier a cell phone for contact purposes, and they hadn’t worried he would call someone, until Clint realized  _ who would he have called _ , and then he just stopped thinking about it.

 

Clint was good at not thinking about things he didn’t want to think about.

 

He turned back through the doorway and into his bedroom, coming out a few minutes later with a new-in-the-box smartphone.  “It’s not a Starkphone,” he said apologetically, as he handed it to Barnes, “but it’ll do.”

 

“You just… have cellphones lying around?”

 

Clint shrugged.  “I break a lot of phones.  It’s a burner anyway, just buy prepaid minutes for it.  Virtually untraceable.” Plus Clint was a thousand percent convinced that Stark would be able to track any phone he made, and therefore he didn’t carry a Starkphone.

 

Barnes took it without comment, reaching to assemble it and turn it on.  “So why do I need a cellphone?”

 

“You don’t, you need Pandora.  A cellphone is just an easy way to use the app.”

 

It wasn’t, of course, quite that simple.  To have Pandora, Barnes needed an email, which he didn’t have either, and then Clint had to show him how to download and set up the app, which was simple enough.  Clint dug through the stations until he found one that had all of Billboard’s Top 100 hits from the last fifty years, and made that Barnes’ first station, explained to him how to thumbs up what he liked, and thumbs down what he didn’t.  

 

“It uses an algorithm to play more stuff similar to what you like, and not what you don’t like.  Not a very  _ good _ algorithm, but you know, it’s moderately effective.  And you can add songs or bands you like and it’ll play them and stuff like them.  You can add stuff from the 40s you liked, probably.”

 

Barnes stared over at him for a moment, slices of cooling pizza between them, before shaking his head.  Clint shrugged. 

 

Far be it for him to judge someone from what they chose to keep from their past, and what they discarded.

 

Which reminded him.

 

He held his hand out for Barnes’ phone, and the other man passed it over reluctantly.  Clint briskly programmed his phone number into the contact list, along with Steve, Sam, and, after a moment, Natasha.  He handed it back with a shrug at Barnes’ slightly incredulous expression.

 

“In case you ever need someone to call.”

 

*

 

When the pizza was gone and the trash tossed out, Clint came to the sudden, staggering realization that he had no idea what they were going to do for sleeping arrangements.  In the winter Clint typically set up a folding camping cot near the wood stove. He’d gotten a good one with a surprisingly comfortable foam mattress, and it wasn’t exactly balmy in the bedroom, where there was no heating on cold nights.  In the summer he slept in the bedroom, where the window AC unit kept the bedroom temperature tolerable.

 

This was obviously not a sustainable arrangement with a houseguest who wasn’t also sharing his bed.

 

Well, he had blankets and sweats and Lucky, plus he had the inkling of an idea that putting Barnes in an icebox of a bedroom to shiver was probably not going to go well, based on everything he now knew of the other man’s time with Hydra.  So he dragged the folding cot out the same as always, setting it up in his preferred spot with clean sheets and a pillow before retreating to the bedroom.

 

“Sorry it’s not more,” he said on his way out, but Barnes snorted in response.

 

“It’s not a cryotube, either.”

 

Well that was true enough.

 

Lucky followed him to the bedroom without complaint, where Clint climbed into bed sweats, socks and all, and the dog draped his familiar furry body over Clint’s feet.  Dropping his hearing aids on the nightstand, Clint fell into an uneasy sleep.

 

He woke up shivering, Lucky pressed up against his back, despite the layers of blankets and cotton.  Confused, Clint wrapped the bottom quilt with all his body heat in it around himself and stumbled out into the living room. Lucky darted out ahead of him to curl up on the rug in front of the sofa. Why the  _ hell _ had he gone to sleep in the bedroom?  Through the heavy door that separated the living area from the bedroom and bathroom, the cabin was toasty warm.  With a relieved sigh, Clint dived head first onto the couch and was asleep again within minutes, his head pillowed on his arm.

 

The next time he woke up, it was to the smell of coffee and numb, tingling fingers.

 

Clint sat up blearily, rubbing feeling back into his hand and wiping the sleep out of his eyes.  Lucky was in front of him, waggling excitedly and probably making the whining happy noise, though Clint couldn’t hear him.   Through the big bay window, Clint could see that the ground was dusted powdery white with snow, which explained why it had been so cold the night before.

 

Barnes was in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a mug.

 

_ Barnes was in the kitchen _ .

 

Fuck.

 

Clint had forgotten the other man was here, and he only had the vaguest recollection of shambling into the living room during the night.

 

Oops.

 

Barnes was talking to him.  Clint only knew because Lucky had turned to look at the other man, and when Clint glanced up he could see Barnes’ mouth moving.

 

“Hold that thought,” Clint said, raising his finger in the universal ‘just a second’ sign.  He winced at the rumble of his own voice, knew without being able to hear that it was too loud, and probably awkward-sounding, tonally.  “Lemme just- I’ll be right back.” He left the quilt on the bed and scooped up his aids before returning to the living room. 

 

He made it a point to put them in while Barnes was watching.  Might as well get it over with.

 

“Ok what was that?” Clint asked, heading for the coffee carafe and the blessings of caffeine.

 

Barnes shoved a mug at him, but didn’t answer for a long moment, just watched as Clint noisily slurped coffee. 

 

Perfect coffee.  The best coffee. Clint may have moaned.

 

“Oh my god, marry me.”  Clint cradled the mug close to his chest, inhaling the steam.  The coffee was almost like Clint’s, strong and dark, but without the acrid bitterness that the amount of coffee he used typically made. “What did you do to it?”

 

Barnes snorted.  “I cleaned the machine.  Also, I put salt in the grounds, cuts down on the bitterness.  So you’re deaf?”

 

“So you only have one arm?” Clint snarked, still clutching his mug.  He blinked a half second after the words left his mouth, briefly worried about offending the Winter Soldier, before he shrugged.  Oh well. 

 

Barnes huffed his little amused sound, and Clint made it a silent goal to make the other man laugh, at least once.

 

“Yeah,” Clint said, after a moment filled with delicious coffee goodness, “I’m deaf.”

 

“Well that explains why you didn’t answer me when you barrelled into the room in the middle of the night and scared the shit outta me.” Barnes drawled, the smirk from the day before back on his face.

 

Clint felt his face flush red.

 

“I coulda shot you,” the other man continued, his eyes more serious.

 

He really could have, Clint knew.  It had been immeasurably stupid, to forget Barnes was there and go crashing into the living room and disturb him.  It didn’t mean Clint needed to  _ acknowledge _ any of that, least of all to the man himself.  It may have been stupid, but admitting it wasn’t Clint’s style.  

 

Plus it might make Barnes feel bad.

 

He waved the other man off, negligently.  “Sorry man, didn’t mean to startle you.” More coffee.  “Forgot you were here, didn’t have my aids in.”

 

Barnes blinked at him, brow furrowed in confusion, searching Clint’s face for something.

 

“What?” Clint finally asked, reaching for the coffee pot and filling his mug back up.

 

“You-”  Barnes paused, lips pursed, before he seemed to steel himself to continue.  “How can you sleep like that with me here?”

 

Ah.  What he meant was, how could Clint trust Barnes enough to be that vulnerable.  Not that Clint had given it much conscious thought, but still. He had an answer for that too.

 

“Steve wouldn’t have brought you here if he didn’t trust you,” Clint answered.  “He wouldn’t have brought you here if he didn’t trust  _ me _ .  Nat wouldn’t have told him where to find me if she didn’t trust that I’d be safe.”  Clint shrugged. “I trust them, so I trust you.”

 

He left Barnes standing at the counter, shell-shocked into silence, as he went back to the bedroom to change clothes. 

 

“I’m sleepin’ in the living room again tonight,” Clint hollered over his shoulder just before he shut the bedroom door.

 


	3. Memories are Made of This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint can cook: a revelation. Bucky can decidedly not. Bonding over burned pancakes, power tools, and movie nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for some mild mentions of child abuse, child hunger, and generally bad childhoods. Also food-related disorders, kind of? Check the end notes for more explanation if you’re triggered by things like that. This is supposed to be a happy feel good story.

“Are you  _ cooking _ ?” 

 

“Ah, um.  Kind of?” Clint answered, momentarily distracted from the potatoes he was attempting to chop into relatively equal-sized pieces.  

 

“Oh, fuck me!” he yelped, jamming his now-bleeding thumb into his mouth, the knife slipping as he was distracted by the question.

 

Clint had spent the last ten months painstakingly teaching himself how to cook.  Despite the marvels of the modern age, he still couldn’t get reliable pizza delivery in the middle of nowhere, and it wasn’t like the town had much to offer in the way of take out.  Gone were the days of Brooklyn dial up. There were only so many frozen pizzas and grilled cheeses one person could eat, even if that person was Clint Barton.

 

So.  Cooking.

 

It hadn’t been as hard as he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t exactly been easy, either.

 

He had yet to prepare an entire meal that  _ didn’t _ result in him cutting, stabbing, or burning himself at least a little.  Which was kind of hilarious in that not-really-except-to-himself way, since Clint had impeccable and deadly aim with a knife at sixty paces and he could probably reverse-engineer a flamethrower with the right parts and a combustible fuel source. 

 

“Mostly I’m putting things in a pot that I’m going to put in the oven and it’ll hopefully be edible in like three hours.”

 

Barnes - who had somehow become Bucky in the last few days - had come into the kitchen to loom over his shoulder and watch.

 

“It’s just…” Bucky trailed off, stymied.  “You don’t seem the type,” he finally said, in a tone that could almost be construed as apologetic.  He glanced meaningfully over the open living area. 

 

The cabin fairly screamed bachelor pad.  There was fletching on the dining table, bits of wire and tools scattered around, socks on the floor, and shirts tossed over the backs of chairs.  It wasn’t exactly domestic bliss. 

 

“Guy’s gotta eat,” Clint muttered, pulling his thumb out of his mouth to check the cut.  Shallow and no longer bleeding. He scooped the potatoes into a pile and moved towards the enameled pot on the stove top, where he lifted the now-browned roast out onto a plate.

 

“Is that  _ wine _ , Barton?”

 

“Jesus fuck, Barnes, do you want to eat or not?  It’s just fucking pot roast. It’s not that hard.”

 

Bucky snorted but kept any further comments to himself.  Yes, Clint had added wine. He’d seen Sam do it once, saw a few recipes that recommended it, and now it was A Thing He Did with pot roast.  So what if Bucky was judging him. He put beer in chili, too.

 

And Bucky’d have new, more varied reasons to judge him harder, once he’d been here for any amount of time.

 

Besides, Clint’s pot roast was  _ good _ .

 

Anyway, he was relatively sure that this line of questioning and sudden interest in Clint’s habits was a manifestation of the cabin fever he could tell Bucky was starting to experience.  They’d been living together for almost a week now, and while Clint was used to the pacing of his life, he recognized the symptoms of someone who was used to having more direction and suddenly felt adrift.  

 

Clint, after all, had spent most of his first month at the cabin feeling the exact same way. 

 

Bucky had spent the first three days prowling to and fro, around and through the cabin, mostly silent and watchful when Clint saw him at all, and sleeping on the camp bed six feet away from Clint’s makeshift bed on the couch.  Bucky had, briefly, tried to argue Clint off the couch, but the furniture was old and comfortable and there was more room for Lucky by his legs on the couch - and therefore he was less likely to wake up screaming his fool head off - so Clint had won that round.

 

In retaliation, Bucky had started  _ organizing _ things.  

 

When he wasn’t galavanting off into the still-chilly wooded area around the house, he was rearranging kitchen cabinets and putting away Clint’s haphazard laundry stack.  The basement was looking suspiciously neat and dust-free, and the washing machine had stopped making the unnerving grinding noise that set Clint’s teeth on edge. The only reason the living room was as much of a mess as it was could be attributed to the fact that Clint was a confirmed bachelor and unrepentant slob.  As quickly as Bucky tidied, Clint trailed cast off bits and pieces of mess.

 

In short, Bucky was bored. Clint knew the signs. 

 

Yesterday, he’d stopped skulking around the property and started hovering in Clint’s peripherals, observing what passed for routine with a furrowed brow and frank curiosity.

 

“You bored, Barnes?” Clint asked, the question nearly rhetorical as he shoved the pot roast into the oven and gave the cutting board and knife a quick wash.  Clint might be careless with odds and ends, and not particularly organized, but he knew how to take care of a sharp blade. 

 

Bucky shrugged noncommittally, but he didn’t deny it.

 

Clint glanced around.  The pace of living in the middle of nowhere and building your own home was largely centered around materials, motivation, and sometimes the weather.  It was a self-driven and relatively undemanding. That didn’t mean there weren’t always things to do around the house. There were also the more casual, house-guest type options, and while Clint didn’t expect Bucky to take him up on them, these were the ones he offered up first.

 

“I’ve got high speed internet, Netflix, Google, movies, and a halfway respectable book collection, all of which you’re more than welcome to use at your leisure.”  Clint gestured around the house in turn, at the built in little entertainment hutch with it’s television and movie collection, the streaming box nearby. His laptop sat on a corner desk, freely available.  There were bookshelves on the other side of the room, crammed with enough variety to keep most people at least mildly entertained, though he couldn't claim to be any sort of connoisseur. Clint had already taken to streaming Bucky’s Pandora station on the speakers he’d wired up soon after completing the main living space, ostensibly for surround sound, but mostly so that he could combat the pervasive silence of living alone, and even now there was something playing at low volume in the background of the house. 

 

Bucky hadn’t done much with the music so far, mostly just listening to it with a contemplative look on his face, and occasionally hitting a thumbs up or down, at least when he was around to do it.  Clint never contributed, except to rarely skip a song he had a particular dislike for, preferring to let Bucky make his own music choices. 

 

He’d decided, in fact, to let Bucky make as many choices as possible, since he didn’t seem inclined to do it without prompting, and because Clint could remember what it was like to have his choices taken away.  

 

Following Clint’s hand movements, Bucky glanced around but continued to look mildly uncomfortable.

 

“Somethin’ specific you want that I don’t have?” Clint asked, trying to parse out exactly what it was that Bucky clearly needed.

 

“I just-” Bucky paused, looking hesitant.  “I want to do something useful,” he said, finally, blowing out a frustrated breath.

 

Ah.  That explained all the tidying and arranging and watching, Clint figured.

 

“Alright,” he said easily.  “There’s plenty of shit to do around here.  What did you have in mind?”

 

Bucky shrugged.

 

Clint reviewed the day’s plan’s in his mind.  There was only about 4 hours of daylight left, and the food would be ready in about three, and he’d intended to finish setting the rocks in the bar top so that he could pour the sealant over them in the morning.  It had to set for at least forty-eight hours and it was going to smell pretty awful for about six, so he’d figured on getting all the rocks inlaid and then sealing them in the morning so he could be out of the house the rest of the day.

 

“You could help me haul the rest of these damn rocks in and get them in the bar,” Clint suggested.  “And then I was gonna work some more on the side porch until dinner. You know how to use a hand saw?”

 

Bucky’s eyes lit up with unholy glee, and Clint nearly retracted the offer.

 

Three and a half hours later, all the rocks were in the bartop, leveled and ready for sealant, arranged in a manner much more tidy and organized than Clint would have bothered with, and most of the boards for the porch were cut and ready to be hammered into place tomorrow.  It was more than he’d expected to get done, and Bucky looked well-pleased with himself, a subtle easing of tension around his eyes and mouth. He’d proven himself more than capable of using a hand saw to great effect, and Clint almost - but not quite - asked him where he’d learned the skill.  He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the answer. Clint himself had gotten reasonably handy with construction growing up in the circus, and anything he hadn’t already known was easily found on YouTube.

 

Clint dished up bowls of roast and rolls he’d dug out of the freezer, the two of them carrying them over to the living room to lean awkwardly over the coffee table.  Clint had started to head for the small dining table but Bucky had snagged the back of his sweatshirt and dragged him towards the couch. Considering that the table was still covered in bits of wire and fletching, Clint couldn’t very well argue the point.  

 

“It’s good,” Bucky said after his first few bites of the food, and Clint tried hard not to be offended by the undertone of surprise he heard in the words.  He shrugged his thanks, humming around his own mouthful of food. They ate in silence, Clint setting his empty bowl aside for a moment as he stretched the kinks out of his shoulders and heard his spine crack in three different places.

 

Ah, the joys of getting old as fuck. 

 

Bucky snagged his bowl and carried it to the sink with his own, quickly scrubbing them out and setting them aside on a clean hand towel that he’d found god-only-knew where.

 

Clint opened his mouth to argue, but Bucky shot him a look, and he flopped back on the couch instead, settling into the well-worn upholstery.  Clint was tired but not sleepy.

 

“Hey, you wanna watch a movie?” he called over his shoulder, where Bucky was now dumping the remaining pot roast into a container to be put away.

 

“Sure?” Bucky answered, not sounding sure at all.  “I’m even less caught up on movies than I am on music.  I don’t think I’ve seen anything since  _ Citizen Kane _ .”

 

Clint laughed.  “Yeah, I’d say you’re a little behind.  It doesn’t matter - you can’t catch up on movie pop culture references entirely anyway, unless you’re gonna lay on the couch and watch movies for sixteen hours a day until you’ve seen them all.  And new ones pop up all the time. They’re just meant for mindless entertainment. And I do mean mindless - I have terrible taste in movies.”

 

Bucky gave his trademark amused little breath before coming back to the living room and settling in the recliner.  “Alright, hit me with your best shot.”

 

Levering himself off the couch to the movie shelf, Clint perused the titles.  He gave a fleeting thought to either  _ Terminator _ or  _ Robocop _ , before deciding those might be just a little bit tasteless - ha, he did have tact, take that Natasha! In the end he settled on  _ The Shawshank Redemption _ because it was, despite Clint’s assurances about his lack of culture, a really damn good movie.

 

He’d forgotten, of course, that some of the themes of the film might hit a little too close to home for a man who’d done bad things to survive, and who’d spent many years essentially imprisoned and forced into unsavory activities, to say the least.

 

At least it had a happy ending, of sorts.

 

When the credits rolled, Clint risked a glance at Bucky, who was watching the screen with a sort of soft, contemplative look on his face, before he rose silently and headed off to the bathroom.  A few minutes later, Clint heard the shower start.

 

He was asleep in his boxers and undershirt, burritoed in his blanket on the couch with Lucky at his feet, long before Bucky came back.

 

*

 

He woke up to the smell of something burning. 

 

Clint shot to his feet, stumbling over the tangle of comforter and large dog around his legs and very nearly falling over the coffee table before he identified the source of the smell.

 

The cabin was not, in fact, burning down around him. 

 

Instead, he found Bucky frowning down at the stove, brows drawn in frustrated confusion, with a stack of misshapen and obviously burned pancakes on a plate nearby. Bucky glaced up, probably at the commotion Clint’s near tumble to the floor caused, and grimaced.  To Clint’s complete and utter horror, he slid the slightly-less-incinerated pancake in the skillet onto the plate and then moved towards the trash to  _ throw them away _ ,

 

“Don’t!” Clint called, probably too loud and definitely strangled as he fought his way free of the blanket and grabbed his hearing aids off of the table.  “Don’t throw them away,” he huffed, settling the devices into his ears and flicking the volume on. “I’ll eat them, don’t throw them out.”

 

Lucky gave Clint the most disgruntled look imaginable as he clambered down from the couch to curl up in front of the woodstove. 

 

Bucky frowned harder, glancing between the plate of blackened, overcooked dough and Clint’s face.

 

“There’s plenty of batter, I can make more,” Bucky said, by way of explanation, and took another step closer to the garbage can. 

 

“No!” Clint said, entirely too forcefully, and then tried to moderate his tone as he adjusted his aids to something that didn’t reverberate in his ears every time he spoke.  He had  _ not _ had enough coffee for this.   “No. I can- I- look, the first pancakes I made when I got here were way worse than that and I totally ate them.  It’s nothing some butter and syrup won’t fix, I promise. They’re fine. Don’t trash them.”

 

Instead of being reassured, Bucky looked impossibly more stubborn and a little bit… hurt?  

 

Seriously, it was too early and Clint was entirely too under-caffeinated for this situation. 

 

“You don’t have to eat them just because I cooked them,” the other man said, at last, caught somewhere between glaring and embarrassed.

 

Which, oh.  That was… ok.

 

Clint sighed. 

 

He had a  _ thing _ about food.  Specifically, he had a thing about throwing food away.  Kind of like Natasha had a thing about eating  _ whatever the fuck she wanted _ because the Red Room had monitored and controlled every bite she had ever put into her mouth based on it’s exact nutritional value and calorie count.  

 

Her every triple grande cinnamon dulce extra whip with caramel drizzle was a giant  _ fuck you _ to her former handlers.

 

Clint, on the other hand, absolutely couldn’t stand to watch perfectly edible food go to waste. 

 

“It’s not-” Clint started, and then gritted his teeth and forged through.  “I’m not trying to spare your feelings. Don’t throw the damn pancakes away.  I don’t throw food away. I  _ can’t _ throw food away, not if there’s nothing wrong with it.”

 

Bucky blinked at him in complete incomprehension, but he sat the plate down on the countertop and listened. 

 

In the skillet, another pancake was probably burning. Bucky saw Clint’s eyes flick towards it, and he strode over and gave it a quick flip, and yeah, it was burnt to a crisp.  Clint sighed again.

 

Turning back around and leaning against the counter, Bucky stared at him expectantly.

 

“You’ve read my file, yeah?” Clint asked, finally, staring down at the floor near the bar, where the unfinished wood would need to be stained, now that the stones were set. 

 

Bucky made a noise that Clint interpreted as positive.

 

“Yeah, well, then you know I grew up in the circus.”  He risked a glance up at Bucky’s face, and the other man gave a short, sharp nod.

  
And now that he’d met Bucky’s eyes, Clint couldn’t really drop his gaze.

 

“Before we made it to the circus, Barney and me - that’s my brother - we were on the streets for a while.”  Clint swallowed, thinking back to cold days and colder nights. Rainy, miserable weather and a gnawing hunger in his belly.  “When I say I’ve eaten way worse than burned pancakes, I mean that dumpster diving was not the worst place I’ve ever gotten a meal, and I went hungry more often than not.”  He paused again, and this time he managed to let his eyes dart over Bucky’s shoulder to the window above the sink. He stared out over the gray landscape and wondered distantly if they could expect more snow.  

 

Bucky didn’t say anything, but the look on his face softened to something that was uncomfortably close to sympathy.

 

“Don’t throw the food away, alright?” Clint said, relieved when Bucky nodded his acceptance. 

 

They stood in awkward silence for a few minutes while the pancakes burned merrily in the skillet. 

 

“Steve did all the cooking,” Bucky offered, hesitantly, and Clint froze, turning to stare at the other man.  “Back when- before. Steve always cooked, so I never really learned how.”

 

Clint snorted, accepting the peace offering for what it was - an exchange.  A sharing of something slightly painful, mildly embarrassing, but most of all  _ personal _ . 

 

“Steve can’t cook,” Clint said, voice heavy with amusement.  “He boils  _ everything _ , and he doesn’t use enough salt.”

 

It startled a laugh out of Bucky, even as he leaned over and slid what was left of the pancakes onto the stack he’d already mutilated.

 

“Ain’t much changed then,” the former assassin grumbled, picking up the bowl of batter and stirring it gently. “Steve cooked because he was home more, not because he was any fuckin’  _ good _ at it.”

 

There were probably half a dozen of the lumpy cakes on the plate Bucky had started, and now that the crisis had been averted and Clint’s brain was starting to function outside panic mode, he recognized that Bucky had tried to cook breakfast for him, however misguided the attempt.  It was, he couldn’t help but feel, an overture of real friendship. Something nice the other man was trying to do.

 

Clint edged towards the stove, stopping to pour coffee into a mug Bucky had already left by the pot, and gave the setup a cursory glance.

 

“Heat’s too high,” he offered, leaning his hip against the counter.  “Turn it down a little and I’ll show you how to get ‘em right.” Bucky reached for the knob to comply, Cilnt nodding his satisfaction at the new setting.  “If you make enough good ones you can mix ‘em in with the burned ones, you can hardly tell they’re in there.”

 

That wasn’t true at  _ all _ .  The bitterness of burnt food was impossible to mask, but Clint suspected Bucky already knew that.  

 

Bucky accepted it for what it was - an overture of friendship from Clint.

 

Reaching for the bowl, Bucky slowly poured batter into the skillet, watching as it spread out into a nearly-perfect circle in the center of the pan.  Clint sipped his coffee, watching as well. After a minute or two, bubbles started forming along the edges of the batter, popping and resettling as the batter cooked from the bottom up.

 

“Alright, see those bubbles?” Bucky nodded.  “When they pop and leave little holes in the batter, that means the bottom’s done - the batter’s cooked just about through.  Then you flip it and cook the other side for another minute until it turns brown.”

 

In the end there were enough golden brown, perfectly cooked cakes to just about counterbalance the charred ones, and once they were all stacked up and slathered in butter and syrup, it was far from the worst breakfast Clint had ever eaten.

 

In fact, with Bucky sitting across from him looking faintly pink around the ears and pleased with himself, Clint thought it might be just about one of the best he’d had in a long, long time. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this story guys. I hope you’re enjoying reading it as much as I like writing it!! 
> 
> TW: Clint mentions going hungry before getting to the circus, including dumpster diving. He also mentions food hoarding, difficulty throwing food away, and being unable to let it go to waste. Also mentions of Natasha’s food intake being controlled by the Red Room and her food choices being in direct response to that. (Fuck you, Red Room, I eat what I want, basically)


	4. I Forgot to Remember to Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets sick, Bucky is a mother-hen, much sharing of feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: some canon-typical descriptions of violence and torture, for both Clint and Bucky. Clint gets the flu so if sick people trigger you, use caution.

Bucky’s taste in music was… somewhat eclectic.  Some of it - like his intense affinity of all things Johnny Cash - didn’t surprise Clint at  _ all _ .  His hatred for Sinatra, though, that was another story.  Who the hell hated Sinatra? Bucky Barnes, evidently. He apparently also had a strange and unique affinity for sixties rock and all things eighties.  

 

None of it bothered Clint.  It wasn’t like he didn’t also have a deep and abiding love for eighties music, and he’d never turned his nose up at classic rock, so overall he was pretty pleased with the music that came pouring out of Bucky’s Pandora station.

 

Of course, that was before today, and today’s unbearable, throbbing headache. 

 

Every beat of every song made the pain behind his eyes  _ vibrate _ , leaving Clint nauseated and cranky and two thousand percent done with the day in general and music in specific, which was completely out of character for him.  It was borderline pod-person behavior.

 

Still, Clint couldn’t bring himself to turn Bucky’s music  _ off _ .  Especially in light of the fact that the man was doing some kind of unconscious shimmy as he re-wired the electrical outlet in the living room that clearly indicated he was enjoying himself.  Bucky was so seldom anything resembling happy, so seldom  _ relaxed _ , that Clint - even a Clint whose head was pounding, whose throat felt scratchy and uncomfortable, and whose eyes were hot and watery - wasn’t going to do  _ anything _ to disrupt that.

 

He needed something to do outside, something away from the incessant noise of synthesized sound and guitar solos.

 

Clint, in a moment of startling idiocy that would surprise exactly no one who knew him, decided chopping wood was the solution to his problem.

 

The sound of an axe splitting wood did not, in fact, alleviate any of the pain in Clint’s head.  It also, shockingly, did not help relieve the pressure in his chest, the stuffiness of his nose, or the ache in his joints.  In fact, despite several layers of sweaters, a scarf, a beanie, and gloves, Clint was shaking and weak even as he split his sixth log. 

 

Then the coughing started. 

 

Bucky found him, twenty minutes into his poorly-thought-out plan, leaning on the axe as he was wracked with a coughing fit so intense his eyes were watering.

 

“What in the goddamn hell is wrong with you?”

 

“I’mb bine,” Clint choked out around the mucus and the coughing and the stuffed-up nose.

 

Bucky reached out and touched the back of his gloveless hand to Clint’s face.

 

Clint instinctually flinched away from the touch, and Bucky squinted at him.

 

“You’re sick,” Bucky accused.

 

“I’b not  _ sick _ ,” Clint argued back, but in light of the absolute trash fire his body currently seemed to have become, it was weak at best.

 

Bucky took the axe and leaned it against the stump Clint used to prop wood on for chopping, and manhandled Clint back towards the house.  He muttered to himself the entire time, about blond idiots, the size of the woodpile, and the absolutely  _ freezing _ late February temperatures.  Considering that they were crunching their way through a few inches of snow accumulation, Clint couldn’t exactly argue the last point.

  
The woodpile, on the other hand, he could.

 

“It’s been cold as fuck,” Clint rasped, “an’ the weather says there’s a ice storm comin’, and we’re gonna need more wood for the stove.”

 

When it was only Clint in the cabin, he kept the stove burning low at night because he slept close to it.  But with Bucky in residence and Clint on the couch several feet away, they were burning more fuel than he typically did. Not to mention the cold snap meant he was burning more wood during the  _ day _ too. The stockpile of split logs he had stacked under the basement awning last summer was depleting a lot faster than he had expected.  

 

Bucky rolled his eyes as he helped Clint up the porch steps when he stumbled. 

 

“Yeah and choppin’ wood in your state was a  _ great _ idea.  How’s about you take your germ-ridden ass to the couch and  _ lie down  _ before you accidentally kill yourself.”

 

The cabin was blessedly silent, the music turned off in Clint’s absence. Clint shuffled towards the couch, but was stopped by the hand fisted in the back of his jacket.  He stared blearily at Bucky’s exasperated expression, before the other man started… unwrapping him, for lack of a better term. The hat and scarf were tugged off and tucked into the closet, the jacket following them to hang on the coat rack.  Bucky forced him, despite his shivering, to take off the hoodie and two of his sweaters, leaving him in a long sleeved-t shirt and jeans. When Clint was finally allowed to flop onto the couch, Bucky pulled his boots off his feet and lined them up by the back door. 

 

“But the wood,” Clint feebly protested, even as Bucky threw his usual quilt over him.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes again.  “I’m pretty sure I can manage chopping wood.”

 

“Steve can prob’ly rip ‘em apart with his bare hands,” Clint mumbled, his limbs feeling heavy under the blanket.  He heard Bucky snort in response. “Hey. Hey. You can rip ‘em up too, right? Arm’s pretty cool, bet it can-” Clint made a ripping noise with his mouth, moved his arms to demonstrate how to tear logs in half.

 

The little huff of amusement that Clint had come to think of as trademark Bucky sounded somewhere over his head. 

 

It was about that time in his rambling that Clint realized Bucky was probably right.

 

“Fuck,” he whined.  “Bucky, I’m sick.”

 

Clint hated being sick.  Being sick was a weakness, a vulnerability, and now he was sick with a  _ houseguest _ .  His typical illness M.O. involved holing up with a blanket and his dog, stumbling to the kitchen in moments of wakefulness to eat whatever was around, and generally disappearing from human contact until he was one hundred percent again. 

 

That was going to be difficult if he was iced in with a former assassin. 

 

“Yeah, ‘m pretty sure you have the flu,” Bucky answered, sounding distracted.  “Stevie had the flu every winter when we were kids.” Clint could hear him shuffling around in the cabinets.  “Where’s your first aid kit?”

 

“Laundry,” Clint answered, pulling the quilt up over his head.  He was only vaguely aware of Lucky climbing up after him to curl in a ball behind his bent knees. 

 

He must have nodded off, because there was nothing for a little while and then Bucky was shaking him awake, handing him a glass of water and two pills.

 

“I gotta go into town,” Bucky said, as he forced Clint to drink the entire glass.  “You don’t got shit here except some expired acetaminophen. I’ll be back in a little while.  Don’t die. Flu use’ to kill people. It doesn’t kill people anymore, right?”

 

Clint blinked at him hazily, taking in the concerned crease between Bucky’s brows.  “I don’t… think so?” 

 

Bucky did not look reassured. 

 

“I mean, I think maybe really old people or kids or like y’know people who are already not so healthy you know?  I think maybe it might kill those people?”

 

That didn’t seem to help.

 

Clint gave up.  “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled, burrowing back into the blankets.  “Go do whatever. Take the truck.” There was another glancing touch across his head, almost a caress, though Clint figured Bucky was probably just checking him for fever, and then he heard the jingle of keys and the door to the cabin shut.

 

He drifted off again.

 

When he woke up, his ears felt gross and sticky from leaving his aids in, he had the bone-deep, unwarmable chill that meant he was very feverish, and he was scrambling for a weapon he didn’t have.  The cabin door had slammed shut and woken him abruptly, and Clint was completely disoriented for a handful of heartbeats as he stared around in bewildered panic.

 

Then he saw Bucky shuffling into the kitchen, way too many plastic shopping bags dangling from his wrists. Memory returned with blinding force, and the flashes of blue Clint tried to ignore on the edges of his vision receded.  Right. They were in the cabin. Bucky was here because Steve was galavanting around with Nat looking for Hydra bullshit.

 

Clint coughed.

 

Oh yeah, and he was sick. 

 

Bucky dropped all the bags on the countertop sheepishly.  “Sorry about the door,” he offered. “Wind caught it as I was comin’ in and my hands were full.”  He was wearing the same baseball hat-red shirt-battered jacket-leather glove bullshit he’d had on when Steve had dropped him off.  

 

“You look like a wanted fugitive,” Clint croaked, apropos of nothing. 

 

There was a moment of startled deer-in-headlights, and then Bucky shrugged uncomfortably.   “I  _ am _ a wanted fugitive,” he muttered, starting to unpack the bags.

 

Some distant part of Clint’s foggy brain informed him he  _ done fucked up, son _ , but Clint ignored the warning signs. 

 

“No, no,” Clint argued, waving his hand widely as he wedged himself vaguely upright in the corner of the sofa and cocooned himself into his blanket. Lucky curled up at his feet. “I know that.  I mean that’s a shitty disguise. You look like a- a-” he squinted, trying to think of the right word. “You look  _ shady _ .”  That was a good word.  Shady. “You’re not inconspicuous.”

 

Bucky looked over at him dubiously and Clint waggled his finger.

 

“Trust me, imma spy.  We gotta get you a better look.  Less stabby, more boy-next-door.”  He watched Bucky shrug the jacket off and put both it and the baseball cap on the coat rack.  The gloves got tucked away in his pocket. They were fine for winter, but there’d have to be a better option for warm weather. Maybe opera gloves? 

 

“Steve’s disguise sucks too,” Clint rasped, after a moment spent pondering the glove issues.   “But Nat’s gonna fix him up when they get back from Fuckoffistan. Or maybe  _ in _ Fuckoffistan? She’s big on on-the-job training.”  He would know, he’d been her victim a time or ten. 

 

Clint’s mind had now wandered off to that time in Estonia where Nat had instructed him to distract a group of Bratva enforcers.  Unfortunately for past-Clint, his Russian was pathetic and his working knowledge of the Bratva hierarchy was sketchy at best. Fortunately, she’d worked hard on his vodka drinking skills and his language skills tended to improve with alcohol consumption. 

 

Immersive therapy, she called it.

 

There were still bars in Eastern Europe that knew him as  _ Kullake _ , and he was finally fluent in both Russian and Estonian.

 

He was startled to find Bucky nearly in his personal space, with a tray from who-the-fuck-knew where, upon which he’d assembled a steaming bowl of something, a gatorade, and at least three different medications. 

 

_ What the fuck? _

 

“Did you make me soup?” Clint asked suspiciously, eyeing the bowl.  

 

“If you call heating something from a can making it, sure.”  Bucky stared at Clint meaningfully until he shuffled around on the sofa and freed his arms.  The tray was deposited on his lap and Clint stared down at it in continued disbelief and mild confusion.

 

Bucky had  _ made him soup _ . 

 

What kind of surreal life was he living?

 

“You made me the good soup,” Clint said, happily, deciding to live in the possibly-hallucinated moment.  “Everyone always talks about Campbell’s soup, but that shit is condensed. This is the good shit; it’s got real noodles.”

 

A small glass of clear, fizzy liquid was nudged toward him and Clint looked from it to Bucky dubiously.

 

“Cold medicine.” Bucky explained, but when Clint made no move to pick it up, the other man rolled his eyes again and forced it into his hand.  “There was a nurse in the cold medicine aisle at the drugstore. She said this was better than the other shit. There’s so goddamn many  _ options _ now.”

 

Clint lifted the small glass to his mouth and downed it in one go.  It was, as he expected, utterly terrible. He gagged a little as he swallowed it, and shuddered once it was down.

 

“ _ Gross _ ,” he said emphatically.

 

“Shut up and eat your soup,” Bucky answered him, standing up and walking back to the kitchen to finish putting away whatever the hell else he’d bought.  “And take the other stuff too. It’s cough medicine and something for body aches.”

 

The dirty look he shot Bucky from across the room went ignored or unnoticed, and Clint reluctantly reached for the pills and gatorade.  It was even the purple kind, almost like Bucky knew what he liked, which was weird to contemplate, so he didn’t. As soon as the first sip of liquid touched his throat he realized he was parched, and chugged half the bottle in one go.

 

The soup, on the other hand, was fan-fucking-tastic.  Whether that was because it really was the good canned soup - Clint still hadn’t perfected homemade chicken noodle soup, not that he’d tried very hard - or because it was flavored with the fact that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, he didn’t know, but he fell on it like a starving man at a free buffet.

 

Warm fingers wrapped around the hand holding his spoon, and Clint looked up to find Bucky watching him with concern.

 

“Slow down, you’re gonna throw up,” Bucky warned.

 

Sure enough, as soon as Clint paused for breath, his stomach rolled.  He sat back, leaving the spoon in the bowl, and Bucky took the tray away and sat it back on the table.

 

“You sure know a lot about takin’ care of sick people,” Clint observed, already feeling sleepy again.

 

Bucky shrugged, and he looked away, his gaze fixed on something over Clint’s shoulder.  “Told ya, Stevie was sick all the time growing up. Got used to it.”

 

Clint hummed in response, shifting to pull the blanket back over his shoulders.  The nausea was still there, like background noise he couldn’t ignore completely. 

 

“You should prob’ly keep your distance,” Clint slurred, yawning.  “Don’t want you to get sick too.”

 

He got a disbelieving snort in response.  Clint forced his eyes open more to look at Bucky’s face, which was tinged with amusement.

 

“Pal, I ain’t been sick since 1945.  I’ve been shot, stabbed, burned, tortured, and had my brain electrocuted into soup, but I ain’t been sick.”

 

Clint nodded off before he could formulate a response.

 

*

 

The next few days - Clint wasn’t actually sure exactly how many, but he thought no more than three or four - passed in a haze of fever and congestion and Bucky waking him up around the clock to dose him with more gag-inducing medication. It wasn’t that he was hallucinating, or completely unaware of the passage of time. It was just that he was having weird fever dreams and falling asleep at random intervals and finding it difficult to  _ care _ what time of day it was.

 

It was either time to eat, time to sleep, or time to shuffle to the bathroom to take a leak.

 

Honestly, it wasn’t  _ much _ different from how he would have handled his illness if he’d been alone, except that the food was marginally better.  Bucky kept up with the expensive canned soup and gatorade, with the occasional shift to buttered toast and hot tea. Clint assumed those were breakfast times.  

 

There was no coffee, which he was supremely disgruntled about, especially because he could smell it brewing, but Bucky refused to give it to him because he said it might interfere with his medication.

 

Fucking google, ruining everything.

 

Clint surfaced as about fifty percent human on the fifth-ish day, his scalp and skin itching from sweat and general gross sick feeling.  The last two days had been sans hearing aids because he’d kept forgetting to take them out and the batteries had totally died, leaving him to toss them on the table irritably.  He could read lips anyway and it’s not like he was being very good company.

 

A sick Clint was a miserable experience for everyone, according to Natasha. 

 

He dragged himself off to the shower, scrubbing as quickly as possible because he lacked the breath for his usual serenade, and then stumbled back to the living room in fresh sweats and boxers, feeling marginally less zombie-like.

 

Bucky was waiting, hearing aids in hand.

 

“Batteries ‘r dead,” Clint muttered, making no move to take the devices.

 

_ I changed them _ , Bucky mouthed back, slow and precise, and Clint blinked at him in surprise.  

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Clint said, once he had the aids in, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m used to it.  I can read lips.”

 

“I know,” Bucky answered as he stalked into the kitchen to make more toast.  “But I don’t know sign and it was gettin’ annoying not bein’ able to talk to you.”

 

Clint blinked at his back, taking in the hunched shoulders and uncomfortable posture.

 

“Thanks,” he said, instead of one of the million other things that was waiting on his tongue, including a disbelieving  _ you like talking to me _ . 

 

The shower had worn him out, but Clint dragged himself up to the breakfast bar and accepted a plate of toast, scrambled eggs and - thank the gods - a cup of coffee so good he moaned around his first sip.  After breakfast he shambled back to the sofa where, he noticed, Bucky had thrown down a fresh blanket and changed his pillowcase.

 

Seriously  _ what the fuck _ ?

 

Clint was entirely unaccustomed to having anyone care for him.  At all. Ever. In his entire life. His own brother had basically left him for dead. This was an entirely new experience.  Natasha cared  _ about _ him, but she would never have voluntarily sequestered herself in the middle of nowhere to essentially nurse him through a bout of the flu.

 

It was goddamn  _ surreal, _ is what it was.

 

“Movie?” Bucky asked, remote already in hand and positioned at the end of the couch where Clint normally rested his feet.  He had the case for Terminator in his hand, and Clint snickered.

 

“Sure,” Clint answered, curling up with his pillow and blanket at the other end of the couch.

 

He was asleep before  Schwarzenegger even showed up, which was a goddamn shame.

 

By day seven, Bucky was caught up on the entire Terminator series - even the really terrible parts of the franchise - Robocop, and most of the Die Hard movies.  Clint, on the other hand, was sick of the couch, sick of the television, and about a million percent done with being treated like an invalid.

 

Unfortunately, he also felt like he’d been hit with a wrecking ball, and told Bucky as much.

 

“I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet,” Clint said, out of the blue, as Bucky took their dinner dishes to the kitchen.  The former-assassin choked a little, something between a cough and a laugh, and Clint felt inordinately pleased with himself.

 

One day, he hoped, he was going to hear Bucky really, genuinely laugh.

 

“And I’m sick of watching TV,” he added, just in case it wasn’t clear that he was looking for something else to do with his time. 

 

“Ok,” Bucky said slowly. “What do you want to do?”

 

Truthfully, by this point in his recovery, Clint would usually being doing something ill-advised and possibly dangerous. Like target practice in the woods. Bucky  _ probably  _ wouldn’t go for that or, really, any of his other, more active ideas. 

 

Clint shrugged. “I dunno. Goin’ stir crazy.” 

 

Several boring games of checkers, a spectacular failure that was Clint’s attempt at Scrabble wherein Bucky tried to play Russian words and Clint proved how good he  _ wasn’t  _ at spelling, and one disastrous round of Monopoly later, they settled on cards. Clint considered himself a moderately proficient card player. He’d been on a few undercover ops in Vegas, played for money and won in Monte Carlo, and very memorably crashed a Russian tracksuit mafia high-stakes game wherein he’d acquired an apartment building in Brooklyn. He wasn’t a novice. 

 

He was, however, sick and dopey on cold medicine and it took him a few hands to realize he was being hustled by a ninety-eight year old man. 

 

“Are you cheating?” Clint asked, conversationally, as Bucky laid down a full house, easily beating his straight, and raked in the pile of pennies they’d liberated from Clint’s change jar for betting. 

 

“No, I-” Bucky paused, looking thoughtful.  “Maybe?” He pursed his lips around the word and stared down at the deck in his hand, the one he was midway through shuffling.  “I’m not sure.” 

 

Clint snorted in disbelief and gestured for Bucky to deal again.  “You’re  _ not sure _ if you’re cheating?” he asked, accepting the cards as they slid across the coffee table towards him.

 

Bucky squinted down at his hand, but his thoughts were clearly somewhere other than the cards.  “I used to do this with Steve,” he decided, abruptly, discarding two cards and drawing from the deck.  “When he was sick, we’d play cards.” There was another thoughtful pause, and Bucky folded his hand to stare off into the distance.  “We played a  _ lot _ of cards.  I think… I think that  _ Steve _ cheated, and I… learned to cheat around him?”

 

Clint burst into surprised laughter that quickly turned into a hacking, mucus-filled cough.  He folded his own hand up and set it aside. Learning about how Captain fucking America was a card shark was way more entertaining than playing shitty poker for pennies.

 

“You expect me to believe,” he said, once the coughing fit was under control, “that the paragon of American virtue  _ cheated _ at cards.”

 

Bucky was looking more and more sure of himself, more confident in his memories.  “No.” He waited a beat and then continued. “Steve cheated at  _ everything _ .  Steve cheated at marbles, for chrissake, along with jacks, hide and seek, checkers, and anything else he could coerce someone into playin’ with him.  The only thing he  _ didn’t _ cheat at was Scrabble and that was because he didn’t have’ta cheat, he was always laid up in bed sick readin’ somethin’, so his vocabulary was bigger’n everyone else’s!”

 

Unable to help himself, Clint started laughing again.  While the general public would be appalled, Clint had known Steve long enough to form a genuine friendship, and what he knew about Steve was that he was a little shit.  This scenario was absolutely  _ not _ beyond the realm of possibility, and furthermore, Clint had read the Captain America file, and he knew exactly what sorts of things Steve had gotten up to before Erskine had turned him into the perfect specimen of man and the government had sanitized his public persona. 

 

“And then,” Bucky added, “he spent half the war swindlin’ the other guys outta their fresh socks and Lucky Strikes.  Steve didn’t even  _ need _ ‘em, but he was forever carryin’ around extra socks and smokes, and givin’ ‘em to guys that looked like  _ they _ needed them.”  The grin on Bucky’s face softened a bit at that revelation, from shit-eating to fond.  “I had to learn to cheat just to keep up with him,” he added, softly.

 

Clint smiled back, taking in the easing of Bucky’s expression, from fierce attentiveness to something warm and soft.  

 

It was a good look on the man.

 

When Bucky’s face started to shift into something slightly more melancholy than happy, Clint was quick to change the subject.

 

“Why’s it so quiet in here anyway?” he asked hastily, scooping the cards up into the deck and shuffling them himself.  “What happened to your music?”

 

Bucky shrugged.  “You said you had a headache and I didn’t wanna bother you while you were sick.”

 

Clint thought it had been unusually quiet the last few days, but with his aids out and the constant, unexpected naps, he couldn’t be sure.

 

“You aren’t bothering me,” he was quick to reassure the other man.  “I like the music. I hate silence more than I hate anything, but you’ve got good taste.  Or, well, you’ve got the kind of taste in music I can appreciate, anyway, which may not be the same thing.”  Clint shuffled the cards this time, instead of letting Bucky deal from the bottom or whatever it was he was doing to cheat.  Clint was determined to pay more attention, figure out the trick. Clint was good at card tricks. “You seem to favor classic rock and synth-pop though, which is kinda an unusual combination.  Not that I’m complaining.”

 

The pinched look on Bucky’s face made Clint  _ immediately _ regret his observation.

 

“I don’t…” Bucky grimaced, then seemed to gather himself up.  When he spoke again, his tone was flat and distant in a way that Clint didn’t particularly want to hear  _ ever  _ again. “I don’t remember a lot of the beginning.  Mostly just… mostly just the arm.” His left arm made a jerky little movement.  “Took a coupla tries to get it… attached. And then there was a lot of- a lotta conditioning.  It’s all kinda muddled.”

 

Clint felt his stomach roll.

 

Torture made time slip in funny ways.

 

He would know.

 

“Then someone came up with the cryo tubes.  I guess, maybe, I dunno, I guess they realized I was gettin’ older, and I still wasn’t quite… ready for field use.  They were wipin’ me all the time.”

 

Clint swallowed back bile.

 

“So they’d wipe, put me in cryo, pull me out blank, send me on a mission.  Rinse and repeat. Anyway.” Bucky cleared his throat, like he was choking back his own nausea.  

 

Clint wanted to stop him, wanted to make him  _ stop talking _ , this was not what Clint had been asking for.  But he couldn’t get his mouth to work, and Bucky was already speaking again anyway.

 

“There were a lot of missions in the sixties and eighties, lotta unrest.  Ways for Hydra to sow more discord. Vietnam. JFK. Civil Rights. AIDS. Gorbachev.  The Berlin Wall. And the cultural shit made it… easier for me to ‘send a message’. Less sniper assassinations, more wetwork.”

 

Forcing himself to take deep breaths through his nose, Clint listened, schooling his face to impassivity.  Maybe- maybe Bucky just  _ wanted _ to talk about it.  Just wanted to tell someone who wouldn’t judge who- who would probably understand better than most.  Clint could do that. Clint could let Bucky share whatever he felt like he needed to. Clint hadn’t asked,  _ wouldn’t _ have asked; but he knew Bucky knew that.  

 

Clint didn’t talk about what happened with Loki at all, not even to Natasha.  _ Especially _ not to Natasha. But sometimes he wanted to- to just spill all of the black, roiling inky darkness inside him, like lancing a wound.  

 

Maybe Bucky was lancing a wound.

 

And Clint could picture it, kind of.  He could see how Hydra would have taken advantage of the atmosphere to send Bucky out like a nightmare.  Guy with a metal arm? In the sixties people would think you’d had a bad trip. In the eighties, some strategic rips to a jacket, people probably just thought he was part of the punk culture.  Right up until he slit their throats. 

 

“But there was a lotta downtime.  Waiting on a target, waiting on a rendezvous, waiting on a- a handler, for extraction.  Spent a lot of time in bars, clubs, places I could go unnoticed.” Bucky shrugged. “I liked the music.  Liked the… freedom. As much as I could like anything.”

 

They sat in silence for a bit, Clint shuffling the cards in his hands and trying very hard not to think more about what Bucky had just told him than strictly necessary.  Tried not to think about how Bucky  _ remembered _ that it had taken a few tries to attach his new arm.  Tried not to think about smoky clubs and neon light and the way it reflected on pools of blood, which was something he also knew a thing or two about. 

 

He cleared his throat, and fanned the cards out in a perfect arc across the table. 

 

“Pick a card,” he offered, voice grating in a way that could almost be attributed to his illness.  “Don’t show it to me.”

 

Bucky glanced at him in confusion, but did as instructed.  He selected a card on the far right of the arc, sliding it out cautiously and glancing at it briefly.

 

“Put it back in the deck.  Anywhere you want.”

 

Bucky slid the card back into the exact same spot he’d taken it from, so precisely that Clint almost couldn’t tell it had ever been moved.  Clint reshuffled the deck, keeping careful note of Bucky’s card. When it resurfaced at the top of the deck, Clint flipped it over so Bucky could see, one eyebrow raised.   Bucky nodded, and Clint quirked a brief, humorless grin.

 

“When I was a kid, I ran away to the circus.”

 

That much was in his file, he knew.  Clint wasn’t actually sure exactly how much of his past was available for public consumption.  He hadn’t talked to S.H.I.E.L.D. much about his time in the Circus. They’d already had his criminal record, and it painted a fairly damning picture. But Bucky had already admitted he knew that, anyway, that Clint had been part of a circus. 

 

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, when you decide to do it.  But there was nothing glamorous at all about staying at home and lettin’ my asshole dad beat the hell outta me, so me ‘n Barney ran away.  ‘S where I learned to shoot.”

 

Clint had been the best archer the Swordsman had ever seen.  Barney’d been good too, but Clint had had a flair for it. Still did, really.

 

“Learned a lot of things.  Card tricks. Acrobatics. Sword swallowing.”  Clint grinned, leered a little. “Costume makeup.  Pickpocketing. Embezzlement and breaking and entering and, eventually, assassination.”  He cleared his throat. “Or attempted assassination, anyway.” Clint tugged the collar of his t-shirt sideways, so Bucky could see the edges of the scarring on his shoulder that looked nothing like a bullet wound.  “When they found the line I wouldn’t cross, my brother left me for dead in a ditch with my own arrows in my shoulders.”

 

It was absolutely nothing like what Bucky had gone through, Clint knew.  After he’d dragged himself to a hospital, worked through infection and physical therapy and dodged the cops, Clint had gone freelance with his skills.  He’d been mostly free to pick his targets, money aside, and he’d done his best to make things harder for the Circus and any other shithead wannabe-villains he could, but he didn’t kid himself that he’d been a good guy.  Coulson catching up with him had proven that - put yourself to use for the government or go to prison hadn’t been much of a choice, really. 

 

But it was a part of his past that Bucky couldn’t read in a file, and it was a bit of Clint offering himself up, too.  Exposing himself because Bucky had done so first.

 

Bucky didn’t say anything about his revelation, and Clint was honestly relieved.  He dealt both of them new hands as Bucky reached into his pocket for his phone and turned the music back on.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my personal headcanon that Steve Rogers is a dirty cheat at cards and possibly all board games, and you can pry that from my cold, dead hands. 
> 
>  
> 
> Sharing is hard on these boys, but they're getting there.


	5. Toy Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is a real boy now, a shopping trip, and a birthday celebration.

“I’ve been thinking,” Clint announced.

 

“Always a dangerous enterprise,” Bucky snarked as he turned another page in his novel. He was sitting in the big bay window, feet propped on the ledge, working his way through his second book of the day. Lucky was flopped out with him, for a change, apparently tired of babysitting Clint’s germy self. It was pouring icy rain outside, again, for the third day in a row. The weather had trapped the two of them inside the small cabin and Clint was slowly going insane.  

 

He was now mostly recovered from his bout with the flu, except for a persistent, dry cough which the internet assured him was either a normal, lingering symptom, or cancer.  He felt reasonably certain it wasn’t cancer. Unfortunately, Bucky had taken the hacking to mean that Clint should be kept warm, dry, and  _ indoors _ . 

 

Over the week of Clint being practically bedridden and the three days of mostly-recovered-but-still-exhausted, he and Bucky had built on their previous tentative camaraderie into something approaching actual friendship. Not Natasha-level of Best Friendship, but definitely surpassing Tony-level, and slowly edging Steve out as Next Best Friend. 

 

Steve, after all, had never seen Clint choke on his own mucus to the point of near vomiting, and then hack up a loogie that would have impressed Popeye. Bucky hadn’t even looked grossed out. 

 

And nothing said bonding like sharing horrifying personal trauma. So. 

 

As Best-Friend-Currently-in-Residence, Bucky had absolutely no qualms about giving Clint shit. 

 

Clint had no problem giving it back. 

 

Plus, watching Bucky make a second trip to the pharmacy for more of, well, everything, still dressed like a serial killer trying to go unnoticed had made Clint even more determined to make a human being out of the man. 

 

His bet with Natasha played only a tiny role in this decision. 

 

“So, like I was  _ saying _ ,” Clint continued loudly, ignoring Bucky’s snort.  “I was thinking we should go into town. It’s almost your birthday, we could do something fun.”

 

Bucky gave him a dead-eyed stare, lifting his left arm wordlessly. 

 

Clint rolled his eyes.

 

“Look,” he said, uncharacteristically serious, “you gotta learn to function in the world right?  You’re here, you’re young, you can’t look like incognito Jeffrey Dahmer for the rest of your life.  You can’t be  _ on the run _ for the rest of your life either.  We gotta get you fixed up. Make you into a real boy.  You can cover the arm for now, it’s still cold. When Tony is done having a snit, he can probably come up with something better than long sleeves and gloves, but it’ll be fine for a day trip.  We can… pick up some targets, do some shooting or something. Have dinner.”

 

Steve, Clint knew, was probably ready to go to bat with the  _ world _ for Bucky.  He’d want to clear Bucky’s name or whatever.  But even if,  _ even if _ , Steve could get Bucky cleared of whatever charges the government came up with - and Clint didn’t really doubt Steve could do that, he was  _ Steve _ \- he wasn’t gonna be able to get Bucky cleared of charges by  _ every _ government.  And even then, the good ole’ U.S. of A. was gonna want reassurances, was gonna want  _ concessions _ .  

 

Clint knew all about those. 

 

It would be far, far easier to make Bucky into a new person than it would be to let him be James Buchanan Barnes again.

 

Bucky scoffed.  “I don’t think a haircut and a shave are really gonna solve my identity problem, Barton.  I ain’t even got a birth certificate.”

 

Another eyeroll and Clint clambered off the couch, heading for the bedroom.  He pried up a loose floorboard in the closet and pulled out the firebox hidden there, digging through various files and documents.  Three big manila envelopes in, he chuckled to himself before pulling it out of the box and toting it back into the living room with him. He dumped the contents onto Bucky’s lap in triumph.

 

Clint had been a criminal for way longer than he had been a good guy - though that title was now up for debate.  He still had some connections, but more than that, he had a variety of bolt holes and identities stashed away for emergencies.  The one he was currently using, Charles Bailey, was one such backup plan, and Clint pretty much figured it was who he was now. Clint Barton, as a person, as  _ Hawkeye _ , was about as exposed as it was possible to be.  Natasha had burned him all the way to the ground when she burned S.H.I.E.L.D. down, and unless Clint intended to go back and  _ be _ an Avenger again - and he wasn’t sure he was real keen on the idea at the moment - he couldn’t be Clint Barton anymore.

 

But he had half a dozen other, partially-built identities floating around, and the one in Bucky’s lap was too good to pass up.

 

“James Brandon Bennett,” Bucky read the Texas drivers’ license aloud.  

 

“The Notorious JBB,” Clint chortled, feeling extremely pleased with himself.

 

It honestly couldn’t have been better if he’d planned it.

 

The picture on the license was Clint, but it was slightly out of focus, and he’d dyed his hair brown and applied some false stubble to his face when he’d forged the I.D., so it didn’t look much like him at all - which was entirely the point.  It also said his eyes were blue, which Bucky’s almost were, in a certain light, and that he was an even six feet tall, which Bucky  _ wasn’t _ , but men lied on their drivers’ licenses about their height the same way women lied about their weight.

 

Which was to say, all the time. 

 

There were even a couple of credit cards, a modest bank account, a fake birth certificate and a dead man’s social security number. 

 

Unless Bucky was stupid enough to fraudulently file with the IRS, it was a plausible identity to live on forever, if he wanted. Once he fleshed it out some, anyway.  Clint kept them all purposely vague enough to suit just about any purpose.

 

“Identity problem solved,” Clint said, smug as shit.  “And I think you should grow the stubble out, not shave it off.  You look like Clark fuckin’ Gable with that jawline. Cut the hair though, it’s gettin’ shaggy.”

 

Bucky gave him an unreadable look.  “Been admirin’ my jawline, Barton?” he asked, finally.

 

Clint shrugged, nonplussed.  Who  _ hadn’t _ been admiring that jawline?  “Happy birthday, JB, you’re a real boy now.”

 

“Thanks, Chuck.”

 

*

 

Bucky’d asked Clint to cut his hair. 

 

That wasn’t intimidating  _ at all _ .  Sharp objects floating around the headspace of a world-renowned, extremely twitchy assassin.  Clint wasn’t nervous. He was just a teeny, tiny, little bit terrified. For one thing, Bucky might lose his shit over the scissors.

 

For another, Clint might fuck his hair up. 

 

“S’not like I can go to the town barber,” Bucky grumbled, perched on a wooden barstool in the bathroom.  Clint had wanted to do it outside, but the temperature had taken another dip and Bucky wasn’t willing to let Clint stand in the cold for a haircut, despite Clint’s assurances that he felt  _ fine _ . 

 

Not that Clint couldn’t cut hair.  He’d cut Barney’s often enough, back in the day, and he’d cut his own plenty of times, though he usually just buzzed the sides and snipped the top down to about even.  Assassins - even government-sanctioned ones - weren’t exactly haute couture. No one expected him to look like a fashion model. Any undercover ops that required something more impressive had usually come with enough budget for a barber, or Natasha had done it. 

 

Natasha was a hair  _ wizard _ .

 

“Relax pal,” Bucky grunted from his perch, taking in Clint’s apprehensive expression in the mirror.  “Stevie used to cut my hair all the time. You can’t do worse than his first time.”

 

“Don’t jinx me like that, you asshole,” Clint responded, before lifting the scissors and taking the first snip. 

 

Well not the first-first.  They’d pulled Bucky’s hair into a low ponytail and cut several inches off to begin with, leaving Clint with just the shaping and evening-up to do. 

 

Right.  He could do this. 

 

They were only a couple of days from Bucky’s birthday - though his new I.D. said he was turning 34 in December, Clint was choosing to ignore that part - and Clint was determined that they were at least going to venture into town for a meal and some grocery shopping.  If nothing else, Clint was sick of canned soup and there was nothing in the cabin he wanted to cook.

 

What he really wanted was Mexican food. 

 

To be fair, he’d asked Bucky for a preference, and gotten a blank shrug in return, so.  Clint’s favorite was going to have to do. 

 

While his mind had been wandering, Clint’s hands had been busy, and Bucky’s hair was shaping up nicely.  A little long on the top, short on the sides. Along with the facial hair Bucky had been meticulously trimming as it grew in - and frankly, super serum must make facial hair grow faster and thicker, because it had only been a few days but Bucky looked like a goddamn hipster already - the man on the barstool looked nothing like the Bucky Barnes of 1940s infamy.

 

Nor did he look anything like the masked, murderous rage-bot that had taken on Captain America in the streets of DC.  Though, to be fair, there weren’t many good shots of that particular fight, even after Steve had ripped his mask off. 

 

Which, thank fuck for that. 

 

When Natasha had released S.H.I.E.L.D’s - and subsequently, Hydra’s - files onto the internet, there hadn’t been much on the Winter Soldier.  His known hits, certainly, and some speculation about his arm and his other enhancements. But the knowledge that he was James Buchanan Barnes hadn’t been on any electronic servers.  The only files had been paper, and Natasha had dutifully hunted them down. They were currently, so far as Clint knew, in Steve’s possession. 

 

Though, now that he thought about it, that was probably not the best choice.  Steve probably  _ tortured himself _ reading them over and over.  

 

He should text Nat. 

 

Brushing the hair off of Bucky’s shoulders - bare, the silver one reflecting the light of the bathroom - Clint stepped back to indicate he was finished. 

 

Bucky stood up, moved closer to the mirror and leaned in to inspect Clint’s handiwork and Clint-

 

Clint was suddenly  _ very _ aware of the fact that Bucky was both half-naked and built like a brick shithouse.  

 

This was  _ not _ in the mission specs. 

 

Bucky turned his head back and forth, ran his fingers through his hair, and Clint, like a complete asshole, just stared.  Stared at the play of muscles in his back, at the scars that streaked across his skin. Bullet wound, knife fight, burn, Clint catalogued them somewhere in the back of his mind, not to even mention the scarring around his shoulder which Clint now knew was a result of multiple attempts to attach it to his body.  The front of his mind, however, was fixated on how, as a complete package, Barnes was  _ smokin’ fuckin’ hot _ . 

  
And he was  _ preening _ in the mirror.  Admiring the haircut, stroking his hand across his face, and Clint realized that he was probably getting a glimpse of what Bucky had been like  _ before _ .  Before the war, maybe, but certainly before he’d been remade into a programmable killing machine, and something about how  _ pleased _ he looked with his appearance did a weird twisty thing to Clint’s insides. 

 

He was a glorified hermit, but he wasn’t  _ dead _ , and now he was uncomfortably aware of just why Bucky Barnes had been such a hit with the ladies, back in the day.

 

_ With the ladies, Barton _ , Clint reminded himself, tearing his eyes away as he turned to grab the broom from against the wall and began to sweep up the strands of dark brown hair on the floor. 

 

History remembered Bucky Barnes as a notorious ladies’ man, with any number of interviews from previous paramours in various historical texts. It would be smart for Clint to keep that in mind. 

 

Not that Clint was particularly known for making smart decisions. 

 

Clint had personally never been particularly concerned about his sexuality.  He’d had equally large crushes on both Steve and Natasha for a hot minute, because they were, objectively, beautiful people.  But what he also had was a competence kink a mile wide, which was how he’d ended up married to Bobbi Morse after an undercover op in Vegas, though that hadn’t lasted long.  And Bucky, well, he was certainly  _ competent _ . 

 

Jesus fuck, this was awful. 

 

“You done good, Barton,” Bucky grinned at him from the mirror, and Clint’s heart skipped a little beat as his face flushed.

 

Clint didn’t manage to stutter out a reply, but it didn’t matter because Bucky strode out of the bathroom directly into the bedroom to change out of his sweatpants.  Clint was already dressed, jeans and a sweatshirt, so he just finished sweeping up the hair and dumped it in the trash before washing his hands. 

 

He was leaning on the counter, staring at his face in the mirror and giving himself a very stern mental warning when Bucky walked back out, in the  _ exact same red shirt, leather jacket, jeans bullshit he’d been wearing to town _ and Clint threw his hands up in frustration.

 

“Ok, first, we’re going clothes shopping.”

 

Bucky blinked at him in surprise.

 

“You can’t wear the exact same thing you’ve been wearing when we’re trying to  _ change your identity _ .”  

 

Clint stormed past Bucky into the bedroom, and began digging through his own clothes.  Bucky was shorter than him, and more barrel-chested, but there wasn’t  _ that _ much difference in their size that he couldn’t find at least a different shirt for the man.  Jeans were jeans, after all. He tossed a dark green, long-sleeved shirt at Bucky and then headed for the closet and dug out a camel-colored Carhartt jacket. Last but not least, he grabbed a pair of thin grey neoprene gloves that  _ didn’t _ look like they’d been liberated from a particularly nasty chapter of Hell’s Angels, unlike Bucky’s current leather pair, and threw them on top of the jacket on the bed.

 

“Let’s try this again,” Clint said, motioning towards the clothes.  “You put that on, we’ll pick some new stuff up for you while we’re out, and then we can have enchiladas for dinner.  Sound like a plan?”

 

Bucky gave him a lazy salute and began stripping his shirt off, revealing the same broad expanse of skin and muscles and Clint-

 

Clint made a strategic retreat to the living room before he could embarrass both of them.

 

*

 

Clint’s property was located just outside of a small-ish town in Tennessee, halfway between Chattanooga and Knoxville, which gave him access to two large-ish cities with airports, and a big enough crowd to get lost in.  Athens itself boasted a community college, a technical college, and a small four year university - which meant the residents were used to seeing fleeting, unfamiliar faces - along with a Wal-mart Supercenter and a couple of grocery chains.  The town was small enough to be inconsequential and big enough that no one was expected to know everyone else’s business.

 

So when he took Bucky out, ostensibly for his birthday, he pretty much knew what to expect from the town.

 

He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect from Bucky.

 

The shopping, especially, did not go as Clint expected.

 

Bucky was as twitchy as he’d anticipated, but it was the middle of the day on a Wednesday, not exactly a hotbed of shopping activity, and he’d handled it well. 

 

No, the problem was everything else.

 

They started at the Wal-mart, because it was cheap and had a little of everything, even if the produce was less than ideal.  Clint had made a couple of judgement calls about sizing, left Bucky to choose between boxers or briefs (he had, Clint’s brain helpfully pointed out, gone with boxer-briefs), and headed deeper into the men’s clothing section.  Unfortunately, between the stiff, scratchy fabric, and the price tags, Bucky had just about bugged the fuck out.

 

After careful consideration, Clint had paid for the new socks, underwear, and undershirts, and then taken Bucky to the local Salvation Army. 

 

Clint was no stranger to Salvation Army, Goodwill, or, really, any thrift stores.  He’d practically lived out of them as a kid and teenager, and then discovered the wonders of old, worn clothes for tailing marks or quick changes of identity. 

 

That, at least, went better, and they were able to get Bucky a lot of lightly-worn, comfortable clothing for, admittedly, far less than they would have spent on brand new items.  They’d need to be washed a couple of times in hot water, obviously, but Bucky seemed relieved and Clint didn’t really  _ care _ , so that was fine.  

 

Then, in a moment of sheer idiocy, Clint took Bucky to Fugate’s.  He’d  _ thought _ , maybe, that they could look at rifles and bows and, maybe later, have some kind of friendly shooting competition - Clint hadn’t had any  _ real _ competition in years, if ever - and had completely failed to take into account the fact that it was not any sort of hunting season, and that the owner knew him.  Clint - or Charles Bailey, rather - had gotten his concealed carry permit renewed at the shop, and he’d accidentally made an impression on the range.

 

He hadn’t even been  _ trying _ for chrissake.

 

“Hey Charlie!” John yelled from behind the counter, where he was meticulously reassembling what looked like a Glock.  “Haven’t seen you in a while, how ya been? Just missed squirrel season!”

 

From the corner of his eye, Clint saw Bucky go tense across the shoulders, hunching in on himself, cagey as fuck.  He sighed. 

 

Putting himself between Bucky and the counter, he took a couple of steps forward, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.  “Yeah, sorry about that. Had the flu, you know how it is.” Behind him, Bucky melted into the short rows of merchandise, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.  There was a lot to buy at a gun store that wasn’t guns and ammo, surprisingly.

 

John tracked Bucky’s movement, his eyebrows pulling together in concern.  

 

This had been a monumentally bad idea.

 

Clint leaned his elbows on the counter, glancing through the glass to the firearms below.

 

“Military buddy of yours?” John asked, under his breath, after a moment of awkward silence. 

 

“How’d you guess?” Clint asked, just as quietly.

 

“He’s got that look,” John said, humming to himself. John, Clint knew, was a Vietnam vet, because he occasionally wore his hat at the shop, but he didn’t like to talk about it. He reached out and clapped a hand on Clint’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  More loudly, he said, “I got a few things in the back to take care of, but if you boys need anything, give me a holler.”

 

True to his word, John disappeared through the door behind the counter.  Clint was sure he had security cameras and video feed, but it was still a nice display of trust, and a kind thing to do.  

 

Bucky had wandered over to a display of rifles, his shoulders slightly less tense with the departure of the boisterous owner, and Clint ambled over to stand beside him.

 

“Sorry about that,” Clint said, under his breath, “I wasn’t thinkin’ about John.”

 

Bucky shrugged.

 

He was looking intently at one of the rifles on the wall, something that looked nearly ancient, though it was in pristine condition, like all of Fugate’s items. 

 

“They sell a lot of old guns here?” Bucky asked, finally.

 

Clint hummed a yes.  “They do collectables, not just regular sales.  Hold classes and do hunting permits too. Why, see somethin’ you like?”

 

Bucky shrugged again, but Clint took careful note of the rifle he was admiring before they left.  Clint threw a half-hearted  _ See you later, John _ over his shoulder as they walked out. 

 

If he went back for the Johnson later, well, Bucky’s birthday  _ was _ coming up in a few days. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using the 616 character stats for heights and general sizing in this fic. I mean, generally speaking, I picture 616!Bucky for pretty much everything, and Fraction's Hawkeye, with a dash of MCU thrown in, but that's why Bucky is shorter and stockier than Clint in this fic.


	6. Bridge over Troubled Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which fishing is attempted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: gruesome nightmares courtesy Clint Barton. Coulson dies, it’s very similar to his in-universe movie death.

“It’s not a contest,” Bucky assured him, barely hiding the laughter in his tone.  He was, once again, propped in the window seat with a book in his lap, wearing worn out sweats and a t-shirt with the Brooklyn bridge on it that Clint could have  _ sworn _ was his. 

 

“It is if I say it is,” Clint retorted, turning back to the pot on the stove, where, theoretically, gumbo was going to be ready to eat in a few hours. Sam had sent him the recipe, along with a easy way to do roux, which was, as far as Clint knew, burned flour, but whatever, he could work with it. 

 

Clint had gone back to Fugate’s a few days after his trip there with Bucky and asked John a few questions before buying the M1941 Johnson rifle that Bucky had been eyeing on display.  He’d had mixed feelings about the purchase, unsure if Bucky  _ wanted _ the gun, or had just been admiring it, but the other man had seemed more than pleased when Clint had presented it as a birthday gift.

 

Well, for a degree of pleased.

 

Actually, Bucky had smirked, made a comment about how they  _ both _ had outdated weaponry now, and  _ that _ had sparked a verbal debate and then a physical demonstration of skill.  

 

It turned out that that particular model of rifle was exactly what Bucky had carried during the war, when he’d been playing sniper for the Howling Commandos and Captain Fucking America.  Barnes had personally set the Army’s sniping records for the next thirty-plus years, until more advanced models had come out, with better scopes and barreling. 

 

Anyway, they’d ended up on the far end of Clint’s property, firing at paper targets and low hanging, out-of-season fruit and, eventually - in a bizarre game of  _ I Spy _ \- tiny bits of landscape that were almost meaningless, only to come to what amounted to a draw.  Clint should have been ecstatic - Bucky Barnes was widely regarded as the best sniper the U.S. military had ever seen, barring technological advances, and the Winter Soldier was still considered  _ the _ best assassin in the business, and Clint had not only kept up, but pushed him to his limits. 

 

Mostly, though, he felt mildly disgruntled and overwhelmingly aroused.

 

Due to the difficulty of the feelings, he was only acknowledging disgruntled. 

 

“You know,” Bucky said, from directly behind his shoulder, while Clint barely refrained from flinching. “I’m starting to sense a pattern here.”

 

Clint was adding chopped onions, peppers, and celery to the dark brown flour and oil mixture in the bottom of the pot.  “Huh?” he asked, feigning distraction. 

 

“You’re like a one-pot wonder.”  Bucky still sounded vaguely amused and he was still standing mere inches from Clint’s back, so close that Clint could almost feel his body heat. 

 

Bucky inched closer to peer into the pot.  “What’s this one going to be?”

 

Clint cleared his throat.  “Gumbo, according to Wilson.”

 

There was a thoughtful hum of acknowledgement and Clint was saved from saying or doing anything incredibly ill-advised by the dinging sound of an incoming text message.  

 

The message was from Nat.

 

_ Let’s chat. _

 

Before Clint could compose a reply, the phone was ringing in his hand, indicating a video call request.  He hit accept with a sigh.

 

Natasha’s face appeared on the screen, slightly grainy from poor internet connectivity - probably on her side - her face shadowed in a pool of muddy yellow light.  She was sitting in what could have been any shit-hole apartment in any corner of Europe, from what Clint could see, and there was a bruise on the side of her jaw, just under her left ear. Her lips quirked in amusement as the call connected.

 

“Cozy,” she commented, one eyebrow raised.

 

In the upper corner of the screen, Clint could see his own face, Bucky’s hovering just behind his shoulder, and the angle made it look.  Well. Clint could see why Natasha would be drawing conclusions that weren’t entirely accurate. Bucky smirked at her, gave a lazy salute, and wandered off back to his seat.  Close enough to hear, but not to crowd. 

 

Clint sighed again.

 

“I hope I didn’t catch you at an… inopportune moment,” Natasha added, as Bucky disappeared from view, and Clint rolled his eyes.  

 

“Just making dinner.  Hang on.” He used the salt and pepper shakers and a cutting board to prop the phone up at just the right angle so she could still see him and he could still stir the ingredients in the pot.  “What’s up? I have to stir this continuously, apparently, so if this is sensitive you’re gonna have to call me back.”

 

Nat snorted.  “Just a check-in.  How are things?”

 

Clint shrugged as he stirred what looked like goop.  Wilson had better be right about this. “Peachy. No one has shot at me in months.  Just the way I like it.”

 

Bucky made his little amused huff at the same time that Natasha said “Bullshit.  You love being shot at.”

 

“I don’t love being  _ shot _ ,” Clint countered, pouring a box of broth into the pot.  He was glad he’d written the instructions out instead of looking at the text message from Sam.  He’d be shit out of luck. “How are things in Fuckoffistan?”

 

It was Natasha’s turn to sigh.  “We’re chasing ghosts. There’s a lot of whispers, not a lot of hard leads.  We’ve burned a few bases, but didn’t find anything of interest. My sources are making noise about someone calling themselves ‘Crossbones’.”  She paused, and like he’d been prompted, Bucky looked up in confusion, his brows drawing together.

 

“Who the hell is Crossbones?”  Bucky levered himself off of the cushion and wandered back into the kitchen behind Clint, not quite as close as before.  “Is he Hydra?”

 

Natasha’s brows were furrowed now.  “Honestly, I was hoping you could tell us.”  Her lips pressed into a thin line and her gaze turned inwards.  “Since you don’t know, we’ll keep doing what we’re doing.”

 

“Any idea when you’ll be back?” Clint asked, finally putting a lid on the pot and reaching for a hand towel.  Apparently now it all just had to… cook for a while. 

 

She smirked, looking between the two of them.  “Why?” she purred, “feeling lonely?” He saw the edge of her arm reaching out, and then the call was cut.

 

Fucking Natasha. 

 

A little while later, as he was adding shrimp to the gumbo, he got another text.

 

_ The beard is a good look for him. _

 

A second one followed.

 

_ Your clothes, too. _

 

Clint knew that was his shirt, dammit. 

 

*

 

While this was not Clint’s  _ worst _ idea to date - that honor was still held, with distinction, by his decision to listen to his adrenaline-addled brain in Budapest - it was certainly one of his worst ideas in recent memory.  Top ten, for sure.

 

Still stuck indoors, the bad weather continued for several more days after Natasha’s call, and left Clint antsy and itching to get the hell out of the cabin.  Left to his own devices, Clint would have long ago wandered out into the rain-soaked woods and found  _ something _ to do.  Faced with Bucky’s disapproving face and his uncanny ability to sniff out when Clint was about to go wandering, Clint had been unable to escape the house in weeks. 

 

It was wearing on him.

 

So when the first signs of spring-like weather - that is, high temperatures somewhere above freezing and some icy sunshine - Clint had suggested they  _ both _ go on an outdoor adventure.  

 

Bucky had raised a brow in question, and Clint had blurted the first suggestion that came to mind - fishing.

 

Not that Clint had ever gone fishing before, or held anything more than the most rudimentary knowledge about it, but by God, he was getting the fuck out of the cabin.  So, digging through the detritus of the basement, he’d produced two poles and a tackle box of fishing gear he absolutely did not remember acquiring. Then he’d gone to the tiny convenience store a couple of miles from the house where they sold everything from beer to bait, which, in this case, was what he was after.  

 

Armed with a tub of worms and some not-as-rusty-as-expected hooks, Bucky and Clint settled themselves on a relatively flat patch of earth near the thigh-deep creek on Clint’s property and… attempted to fish. Lucky happily followed them down, flopping himself on the first patch of dry, sunlit ground he could find, and immediately went to sleep. 

 

Bucky, at least, seemed to have  _ some _ idea of what he was doing, and that, Clint could only assume, came from months spent in European forests, because he sure as  _ fuck _ had not learned how to fish in Brooklyn.  He baited and cast a line with little to no trouble, while Clint tried to surreptitiously watch and mimic his movements, and then he settled down in one of the folding camp chairs they’d brought with them to read yet another trashy science fiction novel. 

 

Clint wasn’t even sure where the books were coming from, at this point.  He was almost certain he hadn’t had that many sci-fi books on his shelves.  

 

Copying as best he could, Clint cast his own line, wedged the fishing pole in the cupholder of the chair, and settled back to enjoy the sunshine and cool, crisp breeze.  

 

Predictably, Clint was satisfied with this arrangement for approximately ten whole minutes.  Then he got jittery. The trees were rustling, the birds were singing, the creek was babbling, and Clint was  _ bored out of his goddamn mind _ .  Were there even fish in this creek? Clint had no idea.

 

Bucky tolerated a solid half hour of Clint squirming, shifting, sighing, and a whole host of other words starting with ‘S’ before he finally lost patience. 

 

“Aren’t you a fuckin’ sniper?” he asked, looking up from his novel to glare at Clint from beneath his brows. “Shouldn’t you be able to sit still for mor’n five minutes?”

 

“That’s different,” Clint muttered, because it  _ was _ .  There was nothing to monitor here, nothing to watch, no earpiece to tell him when or if to take the shot.  There was just…  _ nature _ .  He managed five more minutes before he couldn’t take it anymore.  

 

“I’m goin’ to take a walk,” he explained as he stood up.  Bucky, having already gone back to his novel, barely grunted an acknowledgement as Clint stalked off.

 

Or tried to.

 

What actually happened was Clint took one and a half steps, got tangled in  _ his own goddamn fishing line _ and pitched, head first, into the freezing waters of the stream.  Clint gasped, just before his head hit the water, and then he was tangled and confused, thrashing in the icy water.  He could feel his heavy jeans and sweatshirt weighing him down as they became immediately waterlogged. 

 

Before he could figure up from down and drag himself out of the admittedly-embarrassing situation, Bucky was hauling him out of the creek by the front of his hoodie.  Clint was coughing and covered in mud, soaked to the bone, and already shivering.

 

“You fuckin’ idiot,” Bucky grumbled, “can’t even take you  _ fishin _ ’.”

 

“F-f-f-fuck y-you,” Clint responded, teeth chattering.  

 

Bucky looked more amused than annoyed though, and he immediately started stripping Clint’s sweatshirt off, leaving him shivering in thin white cotton.  His shirt, he saw, was nearly see-through, like an absurd wet t-shirt contest that Clint was bound to lose.

 

“Hey!” Clint yelped, wrapping his arms around himself to no effect whatsoever. 

 

Bucky shrugged out of his own sweatshirt and yanked it over Clint’s head, leaving this arms wrapped around his torso under the soft, warm cotton.  It didn’t do much to ease Clint’s suffering, especially because it immediately became patchy where water soaked through, but it was better than nothing. 

 

It left Bucky clad only in a t-shirt of his own, however, with his metal arm gleaming in the bright sunshine.

 

“Won’t you be cold?” Clint asked, gritting his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering more.  

 

Bucky gave a little one-armed shrug.  “They used to literally freeze me between mission, I think I’ll be alright to walk back to the house.”  He paused, looking at the puddle of slimy water forming at Clint’s feet. “Unless you want me to take my pants off for you too.”  He smirked, and Clint felt his face flush, despite the temperature. Without waiting for a response, Bucky turned and set a swift pace in the direction of the cabin, and Clint started to follow, before turning back to look at their gear.

 

“I’ll come back for it,” Bucky called over his shoulder.  “Hurry up before you catch fuckin’ pneumonia, like you didn’t just have the fuckin’ flu a couple a weeks ago.”

 

Lucky was already bounding ahead of Clint, clearly unimpressed with the current adventure and eager to go where Bucky led.  

 

“Traitor,” Clint muttered as he trudged along behind the two of them.  Lucky had, over the last several weeks, taken even more of a shine to the former assassin than Clint had thought possible, to the point where Clint now occasionally woke up alone, the dog abandoning him early in the mornings when Bucky woke up to… do whatever it was he did before Clint dragged himself off the couch.  It was obvious that Bucky was up hours before Clint - Clint never woke up before the sun was shining in his face to rouse him - and he always woke up to fresh coffee and a Bucky who had possibly gone for a run or recon and showered afterwards. 

 

Bucky, disgustingly, was a morning person.

 

Clint, unsurprisingly, was not. 

 

Halfway back to the house, his aids started to make fritzy, staticy noises, and Clint sighed before shoving his arms into the sleeves of Bucky’s hoodie to free his hands and remove them. They weren’t his field set, which were near-indestructible, according to Tony, just his basic BTE’s, bright purple and  _ familiar _ in a way that the Stark Tech was not, and they were not meant to get wet.  If Clint was very lucky, and he took them completely apart and let them dry in a bag of rice, they might be salvageable.  

 

Maybe.

 

Once inside the house, he made to go into the kitchen, to hopefully dig out rice and a ziplock bag, only to be stopped by Bucky’s hand in his shoulder. Wordlessly, Clint held the aids out in his hand to show him the problem.  Bucky frowned, the sort of concerned-and-annoyed look he’d probably perfected in the 30’s whilst pulling Steven G. Rogers out of back alley brawls. He made a  _ gimme _ gesture that prompted Clint to drop the devices into his open palm, and then Bucky held out a hand to stop Clint from going any further into the house than the doorway.  

 

_ Strip _ , Bucky mouthed, and Clint blinked at him in surprise.

 

Bucky made an impatient motion that spurred Clint into action as he tugged the borrowed hoodie over his head and reached for the snap on his jeans.  Bucky strode off, disappearing into the bathroom for, Clint assumed, a towel to keep him from dripping water everywhere.

 

He was gone much longer than Clint expected.  So long, in fact, that he was shivering in his boxer briefs and huddling near the stove for heat when Bucky returned with an armful of towels and the spare quilt off of Clint’s bed.

 

All of them were tumble-dry warm, like Bucky had stuck them in the dryer Clint very seldom used, and Bucky wrapped Clint in them so efficiently that he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening until he was bundled up on the couch, shivers receding, with a cup of coffee in his hand.  His hearing aids, he noticed, were deposited on the bar in a small baggie of rice. 

 

The squirmy feeling in Client's chest made an unexpected reappearance, and he shoved it ruthlessly down, in favor of concentrating on getting warm and enjoying his coffee.  Once Clint was settled, Bucky grabbed a jacket off of the coat rack and disappeared back outside, Lucky at his heels. 

 

Clint made it all the way through his entire cup of coffee, warm, dry, and toasty, before he fell asleep on the couch.

 

Later, he could never be sure if it was the unexpected dip into freezing water, the lack of sound, the lack of  _ Lucky _ at his feet, or just the unavoidable discomfort of sharing space with someone you barely knew who had a set of lethal skills, but Clint slipped into his first nightmare in weeks.

 

It started out innocuously - Clint prowling around an unknown base, searching for something he wasn’t clear on - and passing a sea of unfamiliar faces.  The longer he walked, the more familiar they got, and the more sinister the entire thing began to feel. The walls never changed, and the halls kept twisting and he never  _ found the thing _ , but he started recognizing the faces.  His unease grew and grew, and finally he looked back and behind him was a sea of endless bodies, all the people he’d walked past, unknowing and uncaring, and in front of him were all the people he knew.  People he cared about. Natasha was there, dead-eyed and hollow the way she’d been when he first found her, and the Avengers, all their weak spots easily visible to him. The chink in Tony’s armor beneath his right arm, the way Steve never really guarded his left flank enough, Sam who flew so totally, ridiculously exposed, without even body armor, and, at the end of what had been an endless hallway but suddenly wasn’t, was Phil.  Phil who was already slumped against the wall, sliding down and leaving streaks of blood on the stark, metallic steel, and whose Captain America trading cards were scattered on the floor around him.

 

Clint looked down to find a bloody knife in his hand and scars on his arms, and Phil opened his mouth to ask a question, only to have blood pour out instead and Clint-

 

Clint woke up choking on a scream, garbled and high-pitched, his stomach rolling and his heart pounding and-

 

Bucky was  _ right there _ .  Watching him and Clint was afraid to look at his face, dreaded the pity and the- the whatever else he might see on the other man’s face at his outburst.  He swallowed hard, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands and pant out the anxiety and adrenaline and  _ guilt _ still swamping his system.  

 

After a few tense moments, it became clear that Clint wasn’t going to talk himself down - not helped at all by the silence he was surrounded by and the rush of blood in his ears and the ragged breathing he could feel but not hear and  _ oh god it was getting worse _ .

 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bucky's right hand reach out, steady but tentative, giving Clint time to react, and then he put his palm flat on Clint’s chest.  Clint looked up, and instead of pity and disappointment, he saw empathy and concern and-

 

It helped.  It was. It was better than he had expected.  More than he deserved. 

 

_ Breathe _ , Bucky said, taking a deep, controlled breath of his own, and Clint forced himself to do the same.  To match his breathing patterns to Bucky’s, to work his way through the panic attack. 

 

_ You’re ok _ , Bucky said.   _ You’re fine.   _

 

He didn’t, Clint noticed, try to tell him it was ‘just a dream,’ or offer him any meaningless platitudes.  Just helped him work through the panic, get his heart and breathing rates back down to normal. 

 

It took what felt like forever for Bucky to talk him down, so to speak.  It felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been that long. But it was long enough that Clint felt shaky and sick afterwards, shivering and sweating, and his stomach was rolling with post-adrenaline crash.  As Clint calmed, Bucky shifted closer, from the center of the coffee table to the edge, until their knees bumped and Clint could almost feel his body heat. He dropped his hand from Clint’s chest to his wrist, where, Clint was sure, he was still monitoring his pulse, but he was also rubbing soothing circles on the thin skin he found there.

 

After a bit, he shifted to the couch, pressing himself from shoulder to thigh against Clint’s still-trembling form, comforting without being aggressive, his fingers still on Clint’s wrist.  Clint could feel the rumble of Bucky’s chest, where he was either speaking or humming, and after a few minutes Lucky ambled over, planting himself on Clint’s feet.

 

Not too long after that, Clint drifted back off, barely aware of the fact that his head was pillowed on Bucky's right shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t fished in years and I have no desires to do so, but apologies if my descriptions don’t flow well.


	7. Whiskey Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dancing is had, friends are made, and Clint is clueless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most gratuitous of all self-indulgent chapters. I envisioned this chapter when I STARTED writing this fic, and I have spent 7 chapters getting to it. 
> 
> No warnings, just all self-indulgent cowboy-hat-wearing, two-stepping ridiculousness.
> 
> Sorry I'm late to post, I worked this weekend and I'm packing for a trip next week (meaning next week's chapter might be late, but I'll endeavor to have it up, and I promise not to subject you to any more country music!)

Clint felt like he was going to vibrate out of his fucking  _ skin _ .  

 

He was used to being in the cabin.  That wasn’t the problem. Not that he didn’t get occasionally stir-crazy or desirous of human company - he did - but ever since he’d noticed Bucky Barnes as an attractive human being, he couldn’t  _ stop _ noticing.  

 

Bucky in a singlet getting ready for bed. 

 

Bucky stretching out one of Clint’s worn t-shirts (and why did he keep taking Clint’s clothes?!) with his frankly ridiculous shoulders.

 

The way his thighs filled out his jeans, the way he hauled heavy rocks and wooden planks and held the boards up as Clint nailed them into place - for fuck’s sake, Clint could not. stop. looking. 

 

Bucky  _ chopping fucking wood _ to replenish what they’d used (though it would have to dry for a good six months to be useful) while his shirt clung to his sweaty back, and his hair flopped over his forehead and had to be shaken out of his eyes as he swung the axe and  _ good goddamn Barnes _ .

 

It was a Problem. 

 

And sure, they weren’t trapped in the cabin per se.  But they were cooped up together, constantly around one another, and the lack of personal space and perspective were, Clint thought, ratcheting his attraction up by several degrees daily.  He needed to get out of the cabin. Amongst people. Other people. Ones that weren’t hotter-than-sin former-assassin type people. 

 

But he also didn’t want to leave Bucky alone in the house for a night while he - what? Went to the bar? And forget picking up a hookup, that was… well, Clint didn’t bring people back to the cabin as a general rule anyway, but he certainly wasn’t going to go trolling for a one night stand with Bucky and his PTSD camping in the living room.  Especially since it was still a little too cold to spend the night in the bedroom. Or at least, it was too cold to take a partner there for the night. Clint could probably tolerate it now, the April weather not nearly as icy and unpredictable as February had been since spring had begun making its tentative foray into the mountains, but subjecting someone else to the possibly mercurial temperatures seemed inhospitable.  

 

Plus, Bucky could probably use a night out.  After all, Clint had decided that it was a personal goal of his to get Bucky out into the world and reacclimated to being part of the human race.  Taking him out for a night to have some fun and a few drinks could be a good part of that, provided Bucky wanted to go.

 

Well, provided Bucky  _ agreed _ to go, because Clint doubted he  _ wanted _ to go do anything that forced him to interact with a group of civilians.

 

It would be good for him, though.

 

Or at least that was what Clint told himself as he ordered some things to make blending into a crowd easier and did some tentative research into their available options.

 

Clint himself wanted cheap beer and relative anonymity, and maybe a pool table to hustle.  He was a simple man with simple needs. 

 

He had no idea what Bucky would want or even like. 

 

“Hey Robocop,” Clint called, out of the blue, as Bucky was washing up dishes after dinner - something that had slowly become a nightly routine.  Clint cooked and Bucky washed up. 

 

Bucky snorted, but glanced over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised in what Clint took as an unspoken invitation to continue. 

 

“What do you do for fun?”  Clint was sprawled on the couch, already dressed for bed and nursing a lukewarm beer, idly contemplating what and how he could convince Bucky to go out and do something.  The grocery store or Mexican restaurant was one thing - Bucky liked to pick out fruit to try and he preferred Clint  _ not _ choose his soap and aftershave.  He also thoroughly enjoyed enchiladas.  Going out for the sole purpose of having a good time was probably a foreign concept at this point.

 

Sure enough, Clint got an eyeroll in response as Bucky turned back to the sink full of soapy water.  They had a dishwasher, but Bucky absolutely refused to use it. 

 

“Ok,” Clint said, instead, “what did you like to do before?”

 

“Before what?” Bucky asked, in what was clearly an effort to be perverse, which made Clint roll  _ his _ eyes.

 

“Before you became the six million dollar man, duh.  Dinner, dates, Coney Island, what?”

 

Bucky froze for a half second, his shoulders tense, and then Clint watched as he consciously relaxed, making a small noise that lately had meant he was contemplating his answer, and continued scrubbing at the pan Clint had made meatloaf on, solely to prove he could make something that wasn’t in a pot. 

 

There were several long minutes of silence, long enough that Clint had pretty much given up on getting an answer and was seriously considering texting Natasha or, god forbid,  _ Steve _ , when Bucky finally responded.

 

“...dancin’,” he said, quiet and thoughtful and maybe a little nostalgic.  “Steve an’ me use ta go dancin’.”

 

That, Clint figured, he could work with.  His mind was already whirring a million miles an hour as he grunted out his response.

 

*

 

Dancing in Bucky’s mind probably constituted partners and steps, Clint figured, an art that was sorely lacking in modern society, unless you took ballroom or other formal lessons.  Most of what people considering going dancing these days consisted of showing up to a hot, crowded club and grinding on each other in what amounted to humping on a dance floor.

 

Not that Clint was against that.

 

He’d done his fair share, and he wasn’t necessarily adverse to the idea.  It didn’t take much talent or thought, but there definitely weren’t any steps involved. 

 

Which made his idea slightly more difficult, but by no means impossible.

 

When he went out, Clint generally wanted to be out of the small town his house was located in, far enough away that he wasn’t likely to run into the locals.  Usually, he drove to Chattanooga. It was about an hour from the cabin - far enough out to be anonymous, but still easy driving distance. There were a handful of bars he liked, most of them hole-in-the-wall places with a quiet clientele and low standards.

 

There was, however, a slightly larger establishment with space for a dance floor, a half dozen well-kept pool tables, and a regular darts tournament on Tuesday nights. On the second Thursday of the month, however, they had a western-themed night they called Midnight Rodeo, which involved a dubious-looking mechanical bull, too many people in cowboy hats, and genuine Texas two-stepping.  They even, in fact, offered lessons to people who showed up early so that everyone could take a turn around the dance floor. 

 

It wasn’t the Lindy Hop, but it was probably just about as close to what Bucky had in mind as Clint could come up with, barring a swing dance competition.

 

It took a couple of weeks for the specialty item he ordered to come in, but when it did, Clint had  _ plans _ .

 

“Alright Terminator, time to get gussied up.  We’re goin’ out.”

 

Bucky blinked up from his usual perch in the bay window, from Clint’s enthusiastic grin to the pile of stuff he’d just dumped at his feet.  Amongst the boots, hat, and shirt that Clint had procured, there was a weirdly flesh-colored lump of silicone that immediately drew the eye.  Bucky reached for it tentatively, and held up what looked like a limp arm.

 

“What the fuck, Barton?”  

 

The arm was a silicone sleeve that Clint had specially ordered from a theater company.  It was meant to be a prop, he thought, but he’d been able to get some pretty careful measurements when he was helping Bucky shop for clothes, and he was relatively certain the sleeve would fit over his metal arm.  The boots and the hat were  _ kind of _ a joke.  Like, they’d be appropriate for the venue, but he didn’t think Bucky would actually wear them. 

 

“This is not going to make my arm look normal,” Bucky continued, still eyeballing the silicone like it was going to reach out and pinch him.  It was very close, but not  _ quite _ , the same tone as his skin.  It was just off enough to be different, and of course it didn’t have the normal hair or veins of a regular arm.  Just flesh-colored silicone. 

 

It would be a great Halloween prop.

 

“Nope,” Clint agreed cheerfully.  “But we’re not trying to make your arm look normal - we’re trying to make it look like what it is.  A prosthetic.”

 

Bucky blinked at Clint again, clearly processing the idea.

 

It was, Clint knew, a good one.  They were never going to fool anyone into thinking Bucky’s arm was a normal, organic arm.  But they could absolutely convince people it was a slightly-better-than-average prosthetic.  As long as Bucky didn’t do anything crazy, like punch through a concrete wall or throw a tank, it would do fine, Clint figured. 

 

People, he knew from experience, tended to avoided paying too much attention to anything that reeked of different or disabled.  They went out of their way to avoid looking at or drawing attention to his hearing aids, and he expected they would do the same for Bucky.  Give it a quick glance then pointedly try not to look too hard, lest they offend.

 

Useful, that instinct. 

 

Bucky set the arm-sleeve aside and perused the rest of the pile.

 

“Do I even want to know what we’re doing?”

 

“Dancing,” Clint answered smugly.  

 

Bucky reached down and picked up the boots and the plaid flannel shirt.  “I’m not wearing the hat,” he warned, even as he turned it over in his hands to look at the inside.  Clint reached out and plopped it on Bucky’s head anyway, as a joke, and  _ Jesus Fuck _ every cowboy fantasy he never knew he had blazed instantly to life inside his brain.

 

The hat was black suede, plain and unadorned, and Clint had picked it up as an afterthought, because Bucky favored black and he’d had a vaguely formed idea that the other man would look good in it, Johnny Cash style.

 

He definitely looked nothing like Johnny Cash, but he was  _ rocking _ the bad boy cowboy look.

 

Clint wanted him in nothing  _ but _ the hat.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes, so Clint reached out to flick the brim, trying to keep the lighthearted atmosphere he’d begun with, knocking the hat off-kilter, which did  _ nothing _ to detract from its attractiveness.  Bucky took the hat off and set it to the side, but he dutifully gathered everything else up and headed to the bathroom to shower and change.

 

Clint blew out a heavy breath before slumping into the chair next to the bay window.

 

It was going to be a very long night. 

 

Twenty minutes later Bucky emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of cologne-scented steam and Clint felt like he might, possibly, spontaneously combust.  The former-assassin had shimmied himself into impossibly tight jeans - jeans that Clint suspected might actually be his own, given how closely they hugged Bucky’s thighs - the plaid shirt, which he’d rolled to the elbow and tucked in and that, somehow, even managed to work for him, and he’d done  _ something _ to his hair that made it look soft and shiny and made Clint’s fingers itch to touch.  

 

He even had the boots on.

 

If Bucky put the fuckin’ hat on Clint was probably going to come in his pants. 

 

_ Christ on wheels. _

 

Clint made a garbled noise as his mind shorted out when Bucky held his arms out  _ to present himself _ .  The silicone sleeve, some distant part of Clint’s brain noted, worked perfectly.  It was, even from a distance, obviously not the same as Bucky’s other arm, but it wasn’t entirely incongruous.  On passing glance in a dark bar, it probably wouldn’t look out of place at all, or at least it would look only a little bit off, like a burn scar, or, of course, a prosthetic.

 

“Do I pass muster?” Bucky asked, finally, when it was clear Clint wasn’t going to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

 

_ What the fuck, Barnes _ .

 

“Yeah, yes, you uh, you look great,” Clint managed, jackknifing up out of the recliner awkwardly.  He moved closer, ostensibly to get to the bathroom, but mostly because he couldn’t  _ not _ edge nearer to Bucky, close enough to smell the soap on his skin and notice that he’d trimmed and neatened his beard so it was less rugged-hobo-in-the-woods and more sexy-lumberjack.

 

Clint couldn’t believe he’d just thought  _ sexy lumberjack _ to himself.

 

Shower.  He needed a shower.

 

He edged past Bucky, who was smirking underneath the facial hair and giving Clint a kind of knowing look that Clint wasn’t sure he appreciated  _ at all _ , and ducked into the still-humid bathroom, twisting the knob on the shower to on. Dropping his hearing aids onto the counter, Clint stepped under the spray, hoping the blistering water would help him relax. Unfortunately, he was surrounded by the smell of Bucky’s carefully-curated body wash and that, combined with all the decidedly un-friendship-like and frankly pornographic thoughts he’d been having, meant that relaxation was not something he could reasonably expect.

 

The benefit of being unable to smell anything except a scent he now wholly associated with Bucky meant that he  _ probably _ wasn’t going to dissociate into a spiral of bad memories.  

 

The downside was that his dick was really interested in the proceedings.

 

Or maybe it was an upside, all things considered, but either way it was embarrassing as  _ fuck _ and Clint absolutely could not go out to a bar with a stiffy.

 

Clint reached out and slapped at the small in-shower radio that had appeared one day, ostensibly for Bucky’s benefit but really for Clint’s, and turned it on.  Clint couldn’t really  _ hear _ the music, exactly, but he could feel the vibrations of the sound echoing on the walls in a way that helped offset the pervasive silence and, more importantly, drowned out any noises he was about to make as he wrapped his hand around his cock. 

 

His pulse was thumping in his ears, too-fast but not laced with the familiar sickening sensation of adrenaline, as Clint palmed himself under the spray of water, half-formed thoughts of Bucky in the  _ goddamn hat _ , of him swinging an axe, muscles flexing, and that little smirk - the one that meant trouble of the best kind, and it was  _ so wrong _ Clint should not be jerking off to thoughts of his friend but it was  _ so fucking good _ .  So, so good, the thoughts of that full lower lip, the way Bucky caught it between his teeth sometimes when he was focused on a task or reading a book, and the way he stretched on the window seat when he’d been sitting, motionless, for too long, arching his back and his shirt riding up to reveal that little strip of skin that Clint wanted to put his mouth on and-

 

Clint came with a shuddering gasp in an embarrassingly short amount of time, trembling as the water washed away the evidence.

 

“Jesus  _ fuck _ ,” he muttered to himself when he could breathe again, and then reached for his own soap.

 

*

 

The drive to Chattanooga was surprisingly comfortable.  It was made in near-silence, but Bucky seemed at ease and Clint was successfully able to not think about his ‘private time’ in the shower, so all-in-all, it could have been a lot worse.  Bucky really hadn’t worn the hat, but he  _ had _ made Clint change into one of the flannel shirts in his closet instead of the plain t-shirt he’d put on with his jeans, and he’d also made him switch out his sneakers for a pair of brown, waxed leather boots Clint hadn’t actually realized he owned. 

 

So, either Bucky had done some quick googling while Clint was showering - possible and even likely - or he’d decided he wasn’t going to suffer dressing up alone - maybe more likely - but even Clint could admit he looked pretty good.  

 

Not as good as Bucky, but then, who did?

 

“Kind of early for the bar, ain’t it?” Bucky asked, when Clint put the truck in park outside of Alice’s.  Officially, the bar was Alice’s Bar and Refuge, but the neon sign only lit up ‘Alice’ these days. 

 

“If you get here before eight, they do lessons,” Clint explained as he stuffed the keys into his pocket. 

 

Bucky squinted at him, but Clint just climbed out of the truck and left him to follow. 

 

It  _ was _ early for the bar, just past seven o’clock, but there was a small kitchen in the back and it wouldn’t even begin to get crowded until close to ten, so Clint figured they could eat and maybe Bucky could get a little dancing in, if he felt like it, and they could leave if it got too crowded or they weren’t having a good time. 

 

Well, if Bucky wasn’t having a good time.

 

Clint was gonna have cold beer and access to a pool table, he would be fine. 

 

The bar, just as Clint had expected, was nearly empty.  The freshly-swept and clearly designated dancefloor was less empty, with more couples spinning around under the watchful eye of a man in a large bucket hat than Clint would have predicted.  A few of them were  _ clearly _ new to the steps, lurching a little and awkwardly shuffling every so often, but there were several couples who looked borderline professional.  Most of the really excellent dancers were older - in their 50s and 60s if Clint were to hazard a guess - and moved fluidly, as though they’d been dancing together for years.

 

Probably, they had.

 

Bucky and Clint made their way to the bar, where Clint ordered cheap draft beer and Bucky ordered equally cheap whiskey on the rocks, which made Clint wrinkle his nose and Bucky grin, and then both of them moved to lean on the railing around the dancefloor and watch the show.

 

“Never really drank the good stuff,” Bucky offered, eventually, halfway through his drink.  “During the war they mixed it with what amounted to rubbing alcohol to make it last, bottled it up and sold it.  I tried some of Howard Stark’s high-end shit, once, and it turns out I’ve got a taste for cheap liquor.”

 

Clint laughed, equal parts surprised and not by Bucky’s admission.  He could almost picture it, now, Bucky and Steve somewhere on the eastern front, passing around a bottle of expensive scotch, and Bucky’s disgusted face. 

 

“Well at least you’re a cheap date,” Clint snickered, tipping his bottle back to drink the last of his beer. 

 

That got him a smirk and a raised eyebrow, but no comment.  

 

About an hour and another two rounds of drinks later, the dance lessons were breaking up, the instructor moving off of the floor along with most of the older, experienced partners. In their place, crowds of college-aged kids moved in to take up space as a new song started, and Bucky - well, Bucky was still just leaning on the rail, watching.

 

Maybe this hadn’t been as good an idea as Clint had thought. 

 

Just as Clint was about to suggest something else - a round of pool or, god forbid, that they head back to the house - Bucky turned to him with a little smile and an uncertain expression.  

 

“Now what?”

 

Clint choked a little on his beer.  “You’re asking me?” he said, in disbelief. “Dancing and girls are your area of expertise, not mine!”

 

There was a pause as Bucky’s expression bled from confused to amused, and he started snickering.

 

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Clint said, but it sounded weak to his own ears.  The truth was, it kind of  _ was _ what he meant.  Clint didn’t dance, outside a few undercover missions and the occasional foray with Natasha at a Stark charity event, and he really wasn’t that great with women.  He could, if he wanted, find a one-night stand with very little difficulty, but talking to women - being charming and rakish and whatever else - that wasn’t really Clint’s style.  

 

Honestly, he wasn’t that great with  _ men _ , either.

 

Clint just wasn’t very good with relationships.  Or people. Or relationships with people. 

 

Bucky reached up to scrub his right hand across his face, wiping away the mirth he couldn’t quite hide, and then downed the rest of his drink with his left.  Which, Clint noted, was hidden beautifully in the dim light and silicone sleeve. It still didn’t look quite like real skin, but no one had given it two glances since they’d been there, and Clint was more than certain it could be explained away as a prosthetic with no one the wiser.

 

“Alright,” Bucky said, nudging Clint away from the railing. “C’mon then.”

 

They went back to the bar for another round of drinks, and then Clint followed Bucky around to the side of the dance floor opposite where they’d been observing, gripping his beer bottle tightly and feeling oddly nervous. There were barstools on this side of the floor, because it didn’t back up to the entrance and impede customers, and, since the crowd was getting larger by the minute, most of them were taken.  Bucky, however, seemed to know exactly where they were going, and he maneuvered deftly between the people in his path.

 

He rocked to a halt in front of two women, one of whom Clint was certain he’d seen on the dance floor a few times already, never with the same partner twice. In fact, Clint was relatively sure he’d seen her dancing with the woman she was with at least once, and another woman besides.  She was slim and blonde, and a bit older than most of the other girls in the bar - probably in her thirties. As a dancer she’d seemed skilled but easy-going, a smile never leaving her face, even when Clint could see her partner stepping on her toes. The woman at her right was taller, curvy instead of petite, with auburn hair that was a bit too high on top to be fashionable, and at least ten years older than the blonde.  Both of them were smiling and laughing, and both of them had nearly-full drinks sitting on the railing in front of them.

 

Clint fully expected Bucky to ask the blonde to dance, and he also fully expected to be left holding the bag - so to speak - on asking the redhead, and he had a sudden, visceral understanding of why Steve grimaced whenever anyone tried to set him up on dates, especially when he’d once painfully admitted that he and Bucky had double-dated enough in the thirties to put him off of it forever. 

 

So all of them, especially Red, were bewildered when Bucky handed his drink off to Clint and asked the redhead to dance.

 

She stared at him for a minute, but he just stood there, smiling and something about it put Clint in mind of the old reels at the Smithsonian, despite the beard and the different hairstyle and the weathered years that crinkled his eyes.  Something soft and boyish and finally, eventually, Red’s friend elbowed her in the ribs and she jumped.

 

“Yeah, yes, I’ll dance!” 

 

Bucky grinned wider and Red trailed him to the dancefloor and within just a few seconds they were off, Bucky taking to the steps like a duck to water, and leaving Clint holding a bottle of Miller Lite and a glass of cheap whiskey and blinking owlishly.

 

“Oh that’s awesome!” the blonde gushed, sudden and enthusiastic, and Clint glanced at her in confusion.  She motioned at the barstool next to her that her friend had vacated, and Clint obediently sat down. “You guys are now my favorites.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“No one ever asks Susan to dance, that was really nice.”

 

Clint felt his lips curl up into something that felt a little funny on his face.  A smile, sure, but there was something about it, something that went with the warm feeling in his chest.  “Yeah, well, B- he’s a nice guy.”

 

Fuck.  They hadn’t talked about their false identities or their names or anything, really, that they probably should have covered.  Oops.

 

He covered his near-slip up with another drink from his beer, only to discover the bottle was practically empty without his ever noticing he’d finished it off.  

 

The two of them sat in silence, watching the dance floor, while Clint felt awkward and uncomfortable and the blonde appeared completely unphased as she steadily consumed her own drink. Possibly she was more used to this than Clint was. Or just happy to see her friend having a good time - the redhead certainly  _ looked  _ happy as Bucky twirled her around the floor like he’d been doing it for years. 

 

Bucky and Susan were on their second song on the dance floor, one that was coming close to its end, before Clint’s nerves finally overwhelmed him and he itched for another beer. Instead, he took an overly large gulp of Bucky’s drink. 

 

Blech.

 

Bucky was grinning when he strode up, Susan’s arm tucked into his elbow, and Clint wasn’t sure if it was the dancing or the disgusted expression on Clint’s face, but it was a good look either way. 

 

“Your drink sucks,” Clint offered, once Bucky was close enough to hear, and Bucky reached and took it from him, raising the glass to his lips to finish it off.

 

“Maybe don’t drink my drink then, ass.”

 

The smile didn’t leave his face, and Clint couldn’t help smiling up at him in response.

 

“You dance?” the blonde asked, and Clint was surprised to realize the question was directed at him.

 

“Not well,” he admitted, and she shrugged.

 

“That’s alright, I can work with anything.  It’d be worse if you were good, honestly.”

 

Clint followed her out onto the floor and did his best to, frankly, follow her lead.

 

“No, this is a half step, look, quick-quick-slow.”  Clint adjusted and then they were moving more smoothly.  “Better. Anyway, the guys that are really good are always assholes, and they usually throw me around too much.  I’ve been drinkin’ vodka cran all night my dude, maybe don’t flip me upside down without warning.”

 

He laughed, still shuffling along with her.  They were quiet and Clint was kind of halfway listening to the music which was, as it had been all night, honestly terrible.  The sound itself wasn’t the worst but the lyrics-

 

“What is  _ with _ this music?” he asked, finally, startling his partner into a laugh. “It’s all your dog died, your wife left you, you have a really big truck, or it’s vaguely rape-y.”

 

She was still laughing when Clint glanced up and met Bucky’s eyes from across the floor.

 

_ Having fun Charlie? _ The other man signed, slowly fingerspelling Clint’s cover name, and Clint hadn’t even known Bucky had been learning sign and-

 

_ Yeah, thanks _ he signed back, then dashed off a quick  _ JB _ before they turned the corner on the dance floor and out of sight.

 

“Y’all are cute,” his partner said, conversationally.  “Blowin’ kisses across the floor.”

 

“We’re not- what? No! It’s not-” Clint trailed off, unable to explain the sign language, and finally settled on saying, “We’re not like that.”

 

She blinked up at him in confusion and then she made a little humming sound that he barely heard but somehow associated with Natasha, before continuing on blithely.  “Cute, but clueless,” she decided. “Anyway, yeah there’s a joke that if you play a country song backwards you get your girl, your truck, and your dog back. C’mon I’ll show you how to spin.”

 

She did, and it wasn’t nearly as complicated as it looked, as long as you maintained good spatial awareness and didn’t run into your neighbor.  And Clint had excellent spatial awareness. 

 

He was, he realized, having  _ fun _ .

 

When they got back to their spot, both a little breathless and grinning, Susan shouted “Charlie!” and both Clint and his partner responded.

 

There was a comic double-take, both of them staring at each other, before Susan started laughing.  Bucky was grinning too, and Clint realized the other man must have helped instigate the joke.

 

“Charles,” Clint introduced himself, holding his hand out.

 

“Charlotte,” the blonde answered, shaking his hand.

 

“But call me Charlie,” they both said in stereo, as though it had been scripted, and Clint dissolved into laughter.

 

He was also, he realized, probably a little bit drunk. 

 

Susan pointed at herself and said her name, before pointing at Bucky and saying, “Jamie.”

 

Clint stared at Bucky and then started snickering again.

 

Charlie glanced up at Susan from beneath her lashes, sidling in a little closer and said, “Can we call you Suzie?”

 

Susan rolled her eyes.  “No. Y’all want another drink?”

 

Clint shrugged in agreement and looked at Bucky, who nodded.  “You can put it on my tab,” he offered, but Susan rolled her eyes again. 

 

“You can get the next round.” She turned and made her way to the bar, Charlie staring after her.  She caught Clint’s gaze and smirked.

 

“Hate to see her go, but I love to watch her leave.”

 

Bucky snorted.

 

“Bathroom,” Charlie announced, sliding off of the barstool she’d only just commandeered and sauntering off into the crowd. 

 

“Don’t they usually go in groups?” Clint asked, contemplatively.  

 

Bucky huffed another almost-laugh.  “They did in the forties,” he offered, then shrugged.  

 

Somehow, the women managed to return together, both of them with their hands full of cups, smaller cups, and a beer for Clint.  Charlie set what looked like more whiskey in front of Bucky, the beer in front of Clint, and the last two larger cups down in the middle for her and Susan.  Susan handed out the smaller plastic cups, filled with cinnamon-scented liquor. 

 

“What’s this?” Bucky asked, holding the tiny shot up.

 

“Fireball,” Charlie answered cheerfully, even as Susan grimaced. 

 

“Isn’t that full of formaldehyde?” Clint asked doubtfully.

 

Charlie shrugged.  “We all gotta die somehow.”

 

“Trust her, she’s a nurse,” Susan said, with the degree of mockery that meant it was a long-standing joke.

 

“Stop outing me in public,” Charlie retorted.  “Salut!” she said, tapping the bottom of the cup on the edge of the bar and downing the shot.  Susan sipped hers more slowly, face contorted the entire time, until it was gone.

 

Clint gave a mental shrug, glanced up to meet Bucky’s gaze with a quirked eyebrow, and they tossed the shots back together and-

 

Ugh.  It was like swallowing a liquid version of cinnamon gum.

 

Clint  _ hated _ cinnamon gum.

 

Bucky gave him a knowing smirk when he made a face, and Clint got that same warm sensation in his chest.  He put it down to the alcohol and lifted his beer to his lips to cover whatever expression he was making.

 

The rest of the night was a blur of more dancing, at least two more shots that got no more palatable with experience, and a fair amount of laughter.  Clint was well and truly intoxicated by the time Bucky was bundling him out of the building, still chatting with Charlie and Susan.

 

“No, we’ll be fine, the drive isn’t that far,” Bucky was saying, when Clint forced himself to pay attention.

 

“If you’re sure.” That was Charlie, sounding doubtful.  “We have a hotel suite not far. It’s girls’ weekend, but you guy can crash on the pull-out.”  She yelped, and Clint squinted at them for a moment before he realized Susan had pinched her. Charlie slapped her hands away.  “At least until you sober up,” she amended, and Clint felt more than heard Bucky’s amused chuckle.

 

They were halfway home before Clint put two and two together.

 

“They were lesbians,” he mumbled from where he was leaned against the passenger-side window.

 

“What?” Bucky asked, still focused on the road in front of them.

 

“They were lesbians,” Clint enunciated more clearly, turning bleary eyes on Bucky.  “Charlie and Susan. They were lesbians, right? Did you know they were lesbians?”

 

Bucky burst into laughter, and Clint couldn’t help but smile in response.  It was the first time he’d ever heard Bucky really laugh, and even if it was at Clint’s expense, it still felt  _ good _ , curling in his gut and settling there, like something that belonged to him. 

 

“Pal,” Bucky finally said, wiping tears from his eyes, “you got no idea, do you?”

 

Clint fell asleep slumped onto Bucky’s shoulder, which was still occasionally shaking with withheld laughter.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice's does not exist in Chattanooga. Or at least, it didn't when I lived there several years ago. Texas two-stepping is a time-honored, Texas experience that is probably only available in Texas. I made up a place to do it in Tennessee purely because I wanted to send the boys to do it.
> 
> If you get the chance, I definitely recommend trying it out. The drinks are cheap, the dancing is fun, and the partners are generally fun and easy-going. Good luck and god speed. 
> 
> Can't say much for the music, unfortunately, but you can't have everything.


	8. Physical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So anyway, Crossbones blows some shit up in Nigeria, and that makes things awkward. 
> 
> Also, more pining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Nightmares, references to Phil's death.

Clint felt his skin break out into goosebumps as Bucky’s fingertips trailed across the patch of skin that was exposed on Clint’s back as Bucky stretched to reach the upper shelf of the now completely re-organized cabinet next to the stove.  

 

Bucky was passing behind him, ostensibly headed for the refrigerator where he proceeded to pour himself a glass of cold water, and if Clint didn’t think too hard about it the casual contact could be attributed to that alone.

 

Except it kept happening, even in situations where it wasn’t totally necessary and Clint-

 

Clint didn’t know what to think. 

 

He was trapped in a desperate, terrible state of constant arousal.  

 

Yesterday Bucky had leaned in to ask him a question, whispering it in the middle of the movie they were watching, the plot of which Clint had lost immediately as the the hot, damp sensation of Bucky’s words against his jaw, his lips  _ this close _ to brushing Clint’s skin, had left him completely inarticulate.

 

In fact he couldn’t, at this very moment, even remember what Bucky had been asking him about, though he’d stammered out some kind of answer at the time. 

 

What he could remember was the way he’d wanted to lean closer, feel that mouth pressed up against his skin, and that was, to be quite honest, extremely dangerous territory.  He’d caught himself leaning into the casual touches, caught himself scooting closer to Bucky on the couch and barely stopped himself from running his own fingers across exposed skin.

 

It didn’t help that in the couple of weeks since their dancing adventure and Clint’s subsequently  _ horrific _ hangover, May - and with it, spring - had arrived with a heat-wave of vengeance.  

 

A vengeance which led to Bucky wandering around in t-shirts that look painted onto his body to  _ begin  _ with (and Clint was still convinced half of Bucky’s wardrobe actually came out of Clint’s closet), and then he got sweaty doing completely distracting and often unnecessary manual labor, which led to the shirts being even more obscenely clingy.  Or, as if that weren’t enough, he started taking the shirts  _ off _ .  The first time, Clint had been distracted by the angry scar tissue at the edges of the prosthetic arm, wincing in sympathy and fingers itching to touch, to soothe.  It was far from the first time Clint had seen it, but the urge to make it all better hadn’t gone away with exposure. If anything, it had only grown.

 

The second and third and tenth times, Clint had been distracted by the everything else, and the desire to touch had morphed from an urge to soothe to something else entirely. 

 

Then Bucky had taken to sleeping in nothing but soft cotton shorts, having moved the little camp bed away from the stove and directly into Clint’s line of vision in the living room and overall-

 

Well, it was borderline-pornographic torture. 

 

Clint stopped lighting the stove at night at all, partially born of desperation to keep Bucky at least somewhat clothed, and partially because it was warm enough during the day to heat the cabin up nicely, and it was starting to be warm enough at night to necessitate cracking the windows, but Bucky had left the camp bed in place.  Across the room from Clint, where Clint could watch the smooth play of muscles along his back when he rolled over or stretched, or when he was restless and the sheets got pulled down to his waist and-

 

Clint was getting a  _ lot _ more ‘alone time’ in the shower than he had done for the entire time before Bucky’s arrival, and it wasn’t helping  _ at all _ .

 

Basically, Clint was fairly certain he needed to get laid.

 

The problem - beyond Bucky’s essential hotness - was that Clint wasn’t actually interested in, well, anyone else.

 

So outside of a hookup, the only thing Clint could think of was to put some distance between him and Bucky.

 

A plan which was working out not at all, because Bucky was nothing if not persistent, and he’d apparently decided that Clint was his personal touchstone.  

 

Which was fine.  Clint was fine with that.  Bucky needed support and human contact and a friend, and Clint could be -  _ was _ \- all of those things. It was  _ fine _ .

 

It was just that he also wanted Bucky to bang him like a screen door in a hurricane.

 

So it was not fine, it was A Problem. 

 

The type of problem which had no clear solution, since there was still no indication of how long Bucky would be staying; when or even  _ if _ he would be able to go back to New York.  Tony was a notorious grudge-holder, and he was, somewhat justifiably, angry.  Clint personally thought that anger was totally misdirected, but he also understood that Bucky was an easily identifiable target for the maelstrom of emotions Tony was probably feeling. 

 

Frankly, Clint just needed a break.  Just like, a temporary hiatus from the sex-on-two-legs situation that was James Buchanan Barnes.  Or James Brandon Bennett. Or whatever.

 

It also didn’t help that, owing to the fact that the anniversary of the Chitauri invasion was fast approaching, there was a vicious uptick in Clint’s nightmares.

 

He was waking up regularly now, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, Lucky burrowed up against him and Bucky just across the room on his cot, watching him with empathetic eyes.  There were flashes of blue in his peripheral vision, Clint was getting lost in thought more often than not, and a more-than-standard creeping of guilt and shame that made him want to burrow into his blankets and never get up.  

 

His S.H.I.E.L.D therapist would probably have made some noises about depression and anxiety, but his S.H.I.E.L.D therapist had been a HYDRA flunkie, so what did she know?

 

Bucky never said anything, but Clint had caught a few concerned glances thrown his way, especially in the mornings when Bucky handed him his cup of coffee, or if Clint got distracted, mired in his own self-loathing. He probably looked haggard between the lack of sleep and the lack of ability to give a shit about how he looked, but Clint figured just getting up every morning was an accomplishment, and it was something he likely wouldn’t have bothered with if Bucky hadn’t been there, so he took his victories where he could get them.

 

The glances weren’t exactly pity anyway, Clint didn’t think, but they were  _ something _ , and it wasn’t something he was sure he could handle from the other man. 

 

Clint needed a damn beer and five minutes to himself.

 

He grabbed his keys off of the hook by the door - which was a miracle unto itself, since before Bucky’s entrance into his life there hadn’t  _ been _ hooks by the door, and Clint had spent untold hours searching for car keys.  

 

“Hey, I gotta run into town and grab a few things, I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he called down the backstairs, knowing Bucky was down in the basement sorting through the clutter and tossing what wasn’t salvageable.  

 

“You want some help?” Bucky responded, his deep voice easily carrying up the narrow staircase.

 

“Nah, nope, I’m good, just a couple small things, I got it,” Clint babbled, fully unprepared for Bucky’s offer and unable to quickly conjure a good excuse.

 

There was a short pause before Bucky answered, and when he did, he sounded subdued in a way that twisted like a knife in Clint’s gut.

 

“Alright. I’ll see you later?” 

 

The fact that it came out like a question made the sharp, coiling sensation even worse.

 

“Yeah, I’ll bring back Chinese!”

 

It was an offer born from a combination of regret and shame, though neither was enough to make him take his words back and offer to let Bucky go with him.  

 

As he was pulling the truck out of the driveway, Clint saw neither hide nor hair of Bucky, even though he usually stuck his head out of the doorway at the sound of a vehicle, even when he knew Clint was the one driving it.

 

Clint didn’t even make it to the main road before he started to feel guilty as fuck. 

 

Sequestered on a corner stool in his favorite hole-in-the-wall bar, his first sip of beer tasted a lot more like self-recrimination than freedom.

 

He sighed.

 

Of course, it only got worse.  

 

Halfway through his beer, the above-the-bar televisions, which had been showing either clips of the U.S. Open or the lead-up to the Kentucky Derby were suddenly interrupted on every station by Breaking News.

 

Clint couldn’t hear the talking heads on the screen, but the tickers running across the bottom of the screen were pretty fucking damning.

 

_ "Multiple sources confirm that Steve Rogers, AKA Captain America, was spotted at the scene" _

_ "Sources state Avengers were tracking wanted fugitive Brock Rumlow to Lagos" _

_ "Reports of Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff and former S.H.I.E.L.D. operative Natasha Romanoff in Lagos are confirmed" _

_ "Brock Rumlow rumored to be behind the Attack at the Military Compound" _

_ "BREAKING: Chaos strikes military compound in Lagos" _

_ "Eyewitness from Lekki Market in downtown Lagos, Nigeria spot Avengers at the scene" _

_ "Extent of damage unknown at this time" _

and 

_ "BREAKING: President Ellis to issue statement from the White House" _

 

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging himself off of the stool and leaving behind a bill far too large for one cheap, half-drunk beer.

 

In the front seat of his truck he pulled his phone out to text Natasha.

 

_ Need me to bring you anything from the market? _

 

He waited for several minutes for a response, but nothing came.  He sighed. It was old, piss-poor code. He’d only sent it in case she was somewhere she was being monitored.

 

When he cranked the engine, the radio was no better, with every station streaming wall-to-wall speculative coverage of whatever incident had happened in Nigeria that involved the team.  

 

At least they knew who Crossbones was now, he figured, and of course it was that fucker Rumlow.  Clint had always hated that guy. He texted Bucky as he was pulling out of the parking lot.

 

_ Headed back.  Turn on the news. _

 

And maybe that wasn’t the best text he could have sent, but he knew Bucky would be more up-to-date on the situation than Clint was by the time he drove the fifteen minutes back to the cabin. 

 

The drive seemed both interminable and entirely too short, but when he pulled under the covered awning, Bucky was already waiting just inside the basement washroom, his face a stony facade that actually pained Clint to look at. 

 

“What’s the situation?” Bucky asked, before Clint was even fully out of the truck, but Clint could only shrug.

 

“You probably know better than me right now.  I heard the news and headed straight back.”

 

Bucky heaved a sigh.  “There was an explosion, I’m not sure of the cause, but it looks like the Scarlet Witch-”

 

“Wanda,” Clint interrupted him.  For all that he had given Steve shit when he arrived, Clint still vividly remembered the scared young woman he had coaxed out of hiding in Sokovia, the one whose brother had thrown himself in front of gunfire for Clint, who had died before they’d had a chance-

 

“Wanda,” Bucky corrected himself.  Clint blinked back to the present to find the other man  watching him carefully. There was a pause as Bucky apparently determined Clint was, indeed, listening to him. “Wanda tried to contain the explosion but lost control of it.  A lot of people died. It was an accident but everyone is in an uproar.”

 

Clint nodded.  Sounded about like he expected and had been able to piece together from the news on the radio, but his heart ached for Wanda, who was trying so goddamn hard to do the right thing. Who was missing her brother like a limb, and who was so very fucking young.  She was so young Clint could barely remember being that young, but she was already trying a hell of a lot harder than he had at her age. 

 

“C’mon,” Bucky said, jerking his chin towards the stairs, “the U.N. is gonna release some kinda statement.”

 

Clint followed him upstairs, and they settled onto the couch, where Bucky already had the TV at low volume on one of the major news networks. 

 

The announcement was worse than Clint expected.

 

Well, not worse, exactly, but fucking awful enough and not even on his radar of things he  _ thought _ could happen.

 

“They want to register people?” he said, incredulously.  “What like- like pets?”

 

“Like weapons,” Bucky grunted, and Clint could see, from the corner of his eye, Bucky’s metal fingers digging into the couch cushions.

 

He’d expected the usual criticism, the backlash against the Avengers - it had only been getting worse since Sokovia, and Clint couldn’t exactly disagree, after the fiasco with Ultron, which was one of many reasons he was in a cabin in Tennessee and not in Nigeria with what was left of the team.  He was grateful, suddenly, for Bucky’s presence, if only because it meant he was here and not there. 

 

He’d even expected U.N. sanctions on the Avengers, or more calls for them to disband, to cease their intervention on the world stage.

 

He hadn’t expected a call for - whatever this was.

 

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Clint breathed. 

 

“Yeah, I already fought a war over this shit seventy years ago,” Bucky agreed, his jaw tightening. “Steve is gonna fuckin’ lose it.” 

 

Clint didn’t doubt that at all, and he could hear the strain on the fabric of the couch under Bucky’s hands.  He reached out and tangled his fingers with the hand closest to him - his right hand, but Clint would’ve taken the left if it had been next to him - and squeezed.  Bucky glanced down at their hands, and back up at Clint, his face confused and something else Clint couldn’t quite name, before squeezing back.

 

They sat in blank, uninterrupted silence as the TV continued on at a low murmur, as more talking heads debated the questionable merits of such a policy.

 

The so-called  _ Sokovian Accords _ had already been ratified by 117 nations, which meant it had been in debate for a long time, but Clint hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about it.

 

It was all very unnerving, and shady as hell.

 

They were playing it in the media like it was strictly about oversight - mostly of the Avengers - but Clint could read between the lines enough to know that it was about more than that.  It was about tracking people, and eventually it would be about using them. Or eliminating them.

 

Retirement was looking better all the time.

 

Clint’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out with his free hand.

 

It was Natasha.  He breathed a sigh of relief.

 

_ We have everything we need for now.  We’ll be out of town a while longer, thanks for looking after our stray. _

 

Clint snorted.

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow in question and Clint passed the phone over wordlessly.

 

Three seconds later, he remembered his last set of messages from Nat were about Bucky wearing his clothes, and he felt a momentary panic.

 

If Bucky scrolled up far enough to see them, though, he didn’t show it, just rolled his eyes and passed the phone back.

 

“So they want us to stay put, I take it?”

 

Clint grimaced.  He didn’t like sitting by idly while his friends were possibly in danger, but he also knew that taking an internationally wanted fugitive out of the country into what was now very hot territory was a very bad idea.  

 

Clint didn’t  _ always _ follow up on his bad impulses.

 

Usually. 

 

“Nothing we can do anyway,” he admitted, finally.  “They’ll have it wrapped by the time we can make our way there, and I’m not sure us showing up will help.”

 

“You mean  _ me _ showing up,” Bucky corrected him sourly.

 

Clint gave a bitter laugh.  “Nah, I mean us. I’m not popular in many circles these days, what with the whole brainwashed alien invasion thing.  People don’t trust me much anymore.”

 

Not that a lot of people had trusted him before - he was a spy, and he’d been a criminal.  He was regarded with only slightly less distrust than Natasha. Or had been. Now he was lucky to not be publically snubbed in the caf.  He mostly kept his distance from everyone except the Avengers, and even then he felt distinctly out of place around everyone except Nat and Steve.  And Wanda, but he felt a weird mixture of protective older brother and guilt when he was around her, and worse was the knowledge that she knew it. It made for awkward interactions sometimes.

 

But, there was the possibility that they would be needed, in the near future, and that was an issue Clint could address.  It might set Bucky more at ease, at least, and that made it worth the effort. 

 

“C’mon,” he said, standing up and pulling Bucky with him.  Bucky allowed himself to be moved, Clint knew, and something about that was nice.  “Turn this shit off. I got something to show you.”

 

Bucky kept his hand tucked into Clint’s all the way down the stairs and into the basement, only releasing him when Clint gave a gentle tug to extract his fingers.  They stopped in front of a particular shelf on the back wall of the basement, one loaded down with the heavier power tools, and one of the only shelves that had been neatly arranged even before Bucky’s arrival.  Clint reached up to the top of the metal, behind the middle supporting post, and flicked a hidden latch there. The shelving unit swung out on smoothly oiled hinges, just high enough off the ground that it didn’t scrape the concrete floor, but not enough to be noticeable to the untrained eye. Clint had carefully shaved the legs down rather than raising the unit, so it all lined up nice and uniformly.

 

Clint didn’t fool himself into thinking Bucky hadn’t noticed the shelf’s set-up, and one look at the other man’s face didn’t show the least bit of surprise, but as far as Clint could tell it hadn’t been disturbed, and he appreciated that Bucky had tried to respect his secrets. 

 

With the shelf out of place, a metal door that looked like any average fuse box was more visible, considering it had been mostly hidden behind a conveniently-placed drill press, and Clint flicked the latch to pull it open. Behind  _ that _ was a generic-looking keypad.

 

Clint cleared his throat.

 

“This place was a safehouse for a lotta years.  Wasn’t much more than a basement for a long time, and this.”  He keyed in the code, reciting the numbers out loud for Bucky’s benefit.  “0-8-7-3-4-2, if you need to get in.” If his voice wobbled on the numbers, well, Bucky didn’t say anything about it, and Clint pretended not to notice.

 

It had been Phil’s badge number, but Bucky didn’t need to know that, any more than Clint needed to acknowledge it. 

 

Only Natasha would have known.

 

He cleared his throat again, swallowing down the old, painful lump that lived there.

 

The keypad beeped and there was a click as the hidden lock disengaged, and then Clint was able to swing the false wall out in addition to the shelf, revealing a hidden room.

 

It wasn’t anything special - nothing fancy, nothing like Stark would have built - but it served its purpose.  Pegboards on the walls held racks of guns and ammunition, bows and custom arrows, more than a few knives. There was a table where Clint occasionally worked on his more… interesting projects, like arrowheads that exploded, tazed, or, currently, boomeranged back to him (it was still a work in progress).  In the southeast corner was an all-weather door that led to a rough-hewn tunnel that turned out nearly two miles away, close to the main road but out of sight. There was some dry storage as well, with bottled water and the kind of shitty ration bars that never expired but always tasted like they already had. 

 

Bucky, Clint saw, looked reluctantly impressed. 

 

“Anybody comes for you, this is how you go out,” Clint said, firmly.  “Through the door, it’ll take you off the property, towards town but not in it.  You can probably hitchhike if you gotta, but there’s cash and a couple of fake IDs in a duffle about halfway down the tunnel, and there’s enough of an arsenal here that you should do alright.”

 

Now Bucky was openly gaping at him.

 

Clint shrugged uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck as he surveyed the small room.

 

“Or, you know, if Captain America needs a hand, we got stuff, whichever.”  He couldn’t quite meet Bucky’s eyes, which were looking at him with a kind of awe that made him entirely uncomfortable.  “I probably should have told you sooner, sorry. Didn’t really think about it.”

 

Didn’t really want to think about it, if he was being honest.

 

Clint liked his little cabin and - while he was on the honesty kick - he liked Bucky being in it, and he’d been actively avoiding thinking about what their real lives were gonna look like, once Steve got all this HYDRA shit straightened out, and Bucky left.

 

He had been, Clint suddenly realized, _playing_ _house_ with Bucky, like it was a thing, like-

 

“Thanks,” Bucky said, his voice hoarse and very low, and now he was the one who couldn’t meet Clint’s eyes, and Clint wondered about that but didn’t ask.

 

He nodded, once, short and sharp, before he turned to lead Bucky back out the way they came.

 

Bucky’s hand reached out, grabbing Clint around the wrist, and Clint turned back to look at him in confusion.

 

“I mean it,” he said, still quiet but sincere in a way that twisted Clint’s chest up.  “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Clint said sincerely, and Bucky let go.

 

They went back upstairs where, by mutual unspoken agreement, they left the television off and turned music on instead, and Clint roasted a chicken, just to prove he could. 

 

*

 

It shouldn’t have surprised Clint that he would have the mother of all nightmares that night, and yet, somehow, he hadn’t anticipated the possibility.  It was the night before the anniversary of the invasion, the U.N. had just announced some kind of ridiculously fucked up registration act, his friends were in danger half a world away and not only could Clint not do anything about it, part of him  _ didn’t really want to _ , and yet he hadn’t even  _ considered _ that it might be a rough night.

 

If he had, he might have sequestered himself in the bedroom, regardless of the fact that he hadn’t done so since that first night Bucky had arrived, and tried to ride it out on his own.

 

Instead, like a dumbass, he’d gone to sleep on the couch like he had every other night, despite the heat of the cabin - even with the windows open - despite Bucky’s nearness, and despite the anxious, jittery feeling he’d been experiencing ever since the news had come on in the bar.  

 

He almost felt like he deserved what happened, except it didn’t go at all like it usually did.

 

Usually, Clint woke himself up screaming, wrapped and choking on his own blankets and gasping for air, with Lucky whining at his feet until he was coherent enough to allow the dog back on the couch with him.

 

Usually, Clint shivered his way through the aftermath, nauseated and miserable, awake at butt-fuck o’clock and unable and unwilling to go back to sleep and suffer through round two or three or five.  It was a lesson he’d learned pretty early on.

 

Usually, Clint was  _ alone _ .

 

Tonight, Clint dreamed of helicarriers and perfectly timed shots, blood and screams, of grisly fighting with one of the only people on the planet he would rather kill himself than hurt, of the snap of bones beneath his hands, and he woke up, panting and adrenaline-soaked and thrashing against an implacable hold.

 

There were several long minutes where Clint writhed and struck out, where he felt his fists connect with bare skin and his heels strike hard shins and he couldn’t hear  _ anything _ except the pounding of his own heart in his ears.  He couldn’t  _ feel _ anything except the sweat of exertion and the dampness of tears running down his face and the rawness of his throat from what could only have been his own screaming.

 

It was a long, long time before he was aware enough to appreciate that the person he was fighting against wasn’t an enemy.

 

It was Bucky.

 

And that realization brought a whole new kind of horror. 

 

Clint stopped hitting, stopped fighting, and started trying to wrest himself away instead, to retreat and lick his wounds and assess the damage and experience the revulsion he could already feel building in his gut as he realized that, in addition to nearly killing Natasha,  _ god _ , now he’d done his level best to beat the shit out of his  _ other _ best friend and-

 

Bucky pressed his aids into his hand, metal fingers clamping around Clint’s wrist and forcing his fingers open so that the devices landed squarely in his palm. He allowed Clint - _allowed_ , because Clint could do fuck-all to get away \- to lean back enough to put them in his ears so he could hear.  Clint pressed them into place with shaking hands, flicking the switches so that sound rushed in, so he could hear his own ragged breathing and Lucky’s low whines.

 

“Clint?” Bucky asked after a moment, while he waited to see- what, Clint didn’t know.  “You with me?”

 

“Yeah,” Clint said, and he could hear the waver in his own voice.  “Yeah, I’m- yeah.  _ Fuck _ .  Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

 

Bucky’s right arm was wrapped around his back, and Clint could feel the beginning of bruising along his shoulders and ribs where he’d clearly been held in place.  Bucky’s left hand slid from Clint’s bicep to his back, where he rubbed soothing circles.

 

He should, Clint thought, have been retreating as far and as fast as he could.

 

“I’m sorry,” Clint said again, defeated and exhausted and a million other things he couldn’t begin to categorize.

 

“Shut up,” Bucky said, though not without a strange tinge of fondness.  “What’re you apologizin’ for?”

 

Clint gestured vaguely at, well, everything.  

 

“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” Bucky said, after another moment of strained silence.  “What, you think I don’t have nightmares?”

 

“You don’t beat the shit out of me when you do!” Clint exploded, felt the hot prickle of tears behind his eyelids.  “ _ Fuck. _ ”  He drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

 

Bucky snorted, completely at odds with what Clint felt was the seriousness of the situation.  

 

Lucky chose that moment to leap onto the couch, settling himself at Clint’s other side with his head across Clint’s thigh.  

 

They were sitting up, Clint realized, with a tangle of sheets and a long-abandoned quilt puddled on the floor.  Bucky was tucked up against Clint’s left side, his arm still draped over Clint’s shoulders, their feet hanging over the edge of the sofa.  Bucky’s cot was abandoned, the thin cotton sheet he barely bothered to sleep under pooled at the foot of the mattress. 

 

“You couldn’t beat me up if you  _ tried _ , Barton,” Bucky continued, a hint of humor in his voice, “much less in your sleep, flailing like a toddler.  I’m fine.”

 

Clint leaned back far enough to look him over, and, sure enough, he couldn’t see a mark on Bucky.  

 

Either Clint had dreamed the violence of their confrontation, or there was something to be said for knock-off super soldier serum.

 

Clint strongly suspected the latter, but he was grateful for the deflection.

 

“God, I’m so fucked up,” Clint muttered.

 

“Hey,” Bucky said, nudging Clint until he was looking up to meet cool grey eyes.  “You’re not- well, you are a little fucked up, but we both are, so it’s nothin’ to be beatin’ yourself up about.”  He paused before quirking a small grin. “Or tryin’ to beat me up over either.”

 

Against his will, Clint choked out a wet-sounding laugh.

 

“Can you go back to sleep?” Bucky asked, after Clint choked down the borderline-hysterical sobbing that wanted to follow behind the laughter. 

 

Clint shook his head sharply.

 

He didn’t want to go back to sleep, where his own demons would be waiting for him, lurking in his subconscious to remind him of all the ways he’d failed everyone he’d ever cared about.

 

“Alright,” Bucky said agreeably.  He made a motion to Lucky, who wiggled forward until his front paws and upper body were in Clint’s lap, and then Bucky got up and went to the kitchen, where he puttered around for several long minutes.  

 

Clint lost track of time, absently petting at Lucky’s fur until a hot mug was pressed into his hands.  He wrinkled his nose as he smelled the steam rising off of the golden liquid. 

 

“Is this  _ tea _ ?”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes.  “Chamomile. Shut up and drink it and I’ll put a movie on.  It’s supposed to be good for relaxing. I put honey in it.”

 

Dubiously, Clint blew on the tea for a few seconds before taking a tentative sip.  He made a surprised, pleased sound.

 

Despite the smug look on his face, Bucky didn’t say anything.  Instead, he lifted the remote and turned the television on, with the sound low and the captions on.

 

“What are we watching?” Clint murmured, still sipping at his tea.  He pretended not to notice when Bucky settled back in at his side, still pressed as close as he had been before, and draped his arm across Clint’s shoulders again.

 

“Stardust,” Bucky answered, and it made Clint grin around the lip of his mug.

 

It was an unexpected favorite of Bucky’s, and it made Clint want to laugh that this, of all things, was becoming something of a comfort film for him.

 

The movie couldn’t have been farther from the gory nightmares still slinking at the edges of his mind, however, so Clint didn’t say anything.

 

He fell asleep, in fact, long before the film’s conclusion, maybe even before Captain Shakespeare - Clint’s favorite character and, he suspected, Bucky’s too - even made his on-screen appearance.  

 

Clint only vaguely recalled the now-cool mug being removed from his lax fingers, and then he was coaxed into a horizontal position, his head pillowed on something warm and firm and  _ alive _ and made him feel more at ease than anything else could have done.  The rasp of Bucky’s breathing and the steady thrum of his heart a reminder that he wasn’t alone or surrounded by the dead

 

He didn’t have any more nightmares.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anyway this is the part where we start to go completely off rails, canon-wise. Other than the whole Bucky is fixed and handwaving the Scarlett Witch fixing him thing, I mean. 
> 
> Lagos bombing was May 3rd, and I plan to keep a couple more important dates, but beyond that, I am now ready to Fix Civil War. 
> 
> You know, two years later.
> 
> Whatevs.


	9. Kiss on my List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE PINING ENDS
> 
> (sort of)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is kind of short but also it ends (most) of your suffering, so I hope that's ok!

Clint woke up in Bucky’s lap.

 

It was not, by any stretch, the strangest or even the most awkward place he’d ever found himself waking up, but it had the potential to blow up in his face a lot harder than most, all things considered.

 

He froze, blinking blearily into wakefulness, and debated the relative merits of trying to sneak away, when Bucky’s hand came up and stroked across the top of his head, metal fingers threading through the slightly longer hair there.  The sensation made him shiver at the same time that Bucky’s rough, scratchy voice ended any thoughts Clint’d been entertaining of escape. His ears itched where he’d slept in his aids, a mistake that was never anything but regrettable in the end, whether it was because of the gross feeling they left behind or, as in this case, because Clint couldn’t ignore the fact that Bucky was awake by pretending he hadn’t heard him. 

 

“Mornin’,” Bucky muttered, and then cracked his neck sharply.  “We should move to the bedroom where it’s not so fuckin’ hot at night.”

 

And that-

 

Clint didn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

 

“Yeah, alright,” he agreed as he sat up slowly and stretched the kinks out of his shoulders.

 

If Bucky was gonna pretend last night’s humiliating events hadn’t happened, Clint was more than happy to go along with the charade.  He could wallow in his own embarrassment in the privacy of his own head. 

 

Bucky stood up and stretched, leaving Clint half-gaping at him and the play of muscles under skin where he was  _ still shirtless _ , and then Bucky gave his arm a small squeeze before wandering off to the bedroom.

 

Clint stumbled for the coffee maker, unable to process this much-  _ much, _ before caffeine and so close to sunrise.

 

The coffee, when Clint brought it to his lips, wasn’t as good as the coffee Bucky typically made, but it was hot and caffeinated and Clint had been drinking his own shitty coffee for years anyway, so it wasn’t terrible.  He tried to ignore just how much the difference in taste  _ felt _ wrong.  How much he’d come to expect Bucky’s coffee to be the first thing on his lips in the morning.

 

Clint was in way, way deeper than he’d thought.

 

Fuck.

 

Bucky chose that moment to return, now with a shirt, both to Clint’s disappointment and relief.  Which-

 

“That’s my shirt!” Clint blurted.  He’d been suspecting that Bucky was raiding his wardrobe, but since most of his t-shirts were generic and plain, or previously stolen from others, he hadn’t been able to  _ prove  _ it.  He hadn’t, really, been trying all that hard.  The idea of Bucky wearing his clothes was a nice one and he hadn’t particularly wanted to disabuse himself of the notion.

 

This, however, was something different.

 

Bucky was wearing an officially-licensed Hawkeye shirt. 

 

It was a mock-up that Tony had given Clint, months and months ago, before Clint had left Avengers Tower for his hideout in the woods, before Nat had destroyed his identity on the internet.  It was part of a run-up Tony had started to try and make the Avengers more publicity-friendly in the wake of the destruction the aliens had left in Manhattan. 

 

This particular shirt had never made it to market, however.  It was literally one of a kind, so there was no possible way it  _ wasn’t _ Clint’s shirt.

 

Bucky shrugged.  “Does it matter?” he asked, reaching for the coffee pot.

 

Only in the sense that seeing Bucky definitely wearing his clothes was doing funny things to Clint’s insides.

 

“No?” he said, instead, unsure why it came out like a question.

 

Bucky smirked at him over the rim of his cup.

 

Clint decided retreat was the better part of valor. 

 

“I’ll just, uh- I gotta-”  Clint pointed vaguely at the bedroom and made his escape.

 

What the  _ fuck _ .

 

Hours later, Clint had successfully avoided Bucky for the majority of the day and managed to cut most of the wood for the built in entertainment system he had decided would fit nicely into the niche in the living room wall.  He was hot, he was sweating, and he’d ditched his shirt at least an hour before and could feel himself getting steadily more sunburned.  It was, he figured, a small price to pay for the peace of mind that meant he wasn’t staring at Bucky doing, well,  _ Bucky _ things.  

 

Bucky was very distracting.

 

Speaking of which, Clint noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned off the electric sander he’d been using to smooth out the smaller pieces of the wood that would eventually become the face of the entertainment center.  Clint had taken his hearing aids out a long time ago, between the gross ‘I wore them way too long’ feeling and the vibration and sound of the power tools. Bucky, he saw, was talking, and Clint sat the sander aside.

 

Not that it helped him hear, but at least Bucky would know he was paying attention.  The other man was almost close enough for Clint to successfully read his lips. He caught  _ most _ of what he said anyway.

 

“-- fuckin’ hot, Christ.”

 

Clint blinked at the other man as he parsed out the words.  He shrugged.

 

“Yeah, I mean it’s only gonna get hotter man, sorry.  Welcome to the south.”

 

Bucky stared at him in confusion for a moment, before throwing his hands up in exasperation. He said something that looked like ‘you gotta be fucking kidding me’ and then he stomped off back to the house, shaking his head.

 

Clint watched him go in utter confusion for a long moment before turning the sander back on.

 

The sun was dipping below the tree line when Clint finally called it a day.  His shoulders were stinging with heat and sweat, and he knew that he was going to seriously regret the lack of shirt and sunscreen in the next few days, but the physical exertion felt good, plus the mindlessness of the work had successfully distracted him from the events of the previous night.

 

He felt good, worn out in all the best ways with muscle fatigue instead of mental exhaustion.

 

When he walked into the cabin, he was surprised to smell something fucking  _ amazing _ .

 

“Holy shit, Barnes, are you cooking?” Clint asked, his shirt thrown around his neck and sawdust coating his jeans and boots.  He’d put his aids back in when he put the sander away, now that his ears  _ finally _ didn’t feel gummed up anymore.

 

Bucky looked up from where he was sprawled out on the couch with  _ Bladerunner _ playing on the television.  He shrugged in response. 

 

“It’s just spaghetti, don’t get excited.”

 

“Fuck you, I’ll get excited if I want.” Clint grinned to take the sting out of the cursing.  “Do I have time to shower?”

 

“Food’ll keep,” Bucky reassured him.  “I can just mix the sauce with the noodles and put a lid on it til you’re done.”

 

“You don’t gotta do that, you can go ahead,” Clint said, bending down to strip his boots off and set them outside the door.  

 

“Nah, I’ll wait.”

 

Clint shrugged. Whatever Bucky wanted to do was fine with him.

 

He rushed through the shower, his stomach growling and the hot water aggravating his shoulders until he turned the temperature down to something more like tepid and less like boiling lobster.  The next few days were gonna  _ suck _ , Clint knew, but he felt accomplished and less out-of-sorts than he had when he woke up.  

 

Worth it, he figured. 

 

When he came out of the bathroom in a pair of purple cotton pajama pants Kate had gotten him and sans his shirt in deference to the now  _ spectacular _ sunburn he was sporting, Bucky had already plated up piles of spaghetti and garlic bread, with a tall glass of water next to Clint’s plate at the bar. 

 

“Aw, water, no,” Clint whined.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but made no move to replace the offending glass with a bottle of beer.

 

Halfway through the plates of food, Bucky spoke up again.

 

“So, bedroom tonight?”

 

Clint barely saved himself from choking on the mouthful of noodles and sauce he was chewing.

 

“Uh, yeah, sure, if you want,” he said, swallowing down the overly large bite he’d taken.  “The AC in there gets kinda cold at night, though. It just runs constantly, doesn't really have a temperature setting.”

 

Bucky shrugged.  He was on his second serving of pasta and rapidly clearing his plate as Clint spoke.  

 

“I’m sure I can think of some way to keep warm.”

 

That time, Clint did choke.

 

Luckily, Bucky got up to wash his plate just as Clint was aspirating his dinner.  The pots from the sauce and the noodles were already nestled in the drying rack, attesting to Bucky’s proactive attitude towards cleanliness.

 

By the time Clint washed his own plate and made his way to the as-yet-unused bedroom, Bucky was already there, freshly showered and wearing his usual cotton shorts and nothing else.

 

The camping cot was nowhere to be seen. 

 

“Um,” Clint said, glancing around.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes so hard Clint was relatively certain he saw his own brain.

 

“Are we really going to keep dancing around this?” He asked, arms crossed.  He looked mulish and a little defensive and Clint, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out why.

 

“What?” 

 

Bucky sighed, and then stepped into Clint’s personal space.  “This,” he said, gesturing between the two of them. 

 

Clint goggled at him unintelligently.  “What?” he said again, and Bucky sighed again.

 

He stepped in even closer, until he was pressed flush against Clint’s body and Clint’s breath hitched in his chest and what even-

 

Bucky smirked.  “Clint. You stare at me.  All the time. You think I haven’t noticed?”  He reached out and wrapped his arm around Clint’s waist, his fingers trailing over the bare skin of his lower back, where the sunburn didn’t reach.  “You’ve taken me out on  _ dates _ .”

 

“I wasn’t- that- I didn’t-”  Clint swallowed audibly. 

 

“ _ Clint _ .”  Bucky rolled his eyes.

 

And okay, yeah, in hindsight, yes a lot of the things he and Bucky had done, kind of looked like dates. 

 

All of them, really, now that Clint thought about it.

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

“Fuck,” Clint said, distantly noting that his voice caught, a little, on the word, and he sounded breathy in a way he’d definitely be embarrassed about later.

 

Bucky hummed, tilting his head up and brushing his lips along Clint’s jaw.

 

“Plus, I can hear you in the shower,” he added conversationally, nosing at the skin below Clint’s ear and making him shiver.

 

“Oh Christ,” Clint groaned, closing his eyes.  Fucking supersoldier hearing. He thought, frantically, of all the times he’d jerked off and wondered, suddenly, how many of those times he’d  _ said Bucky’s name _ .  “ _ Fuck _ ,” he said again.

 

“Maybe,” Bucky said agreeably, and then his mouth was pressed against Clint’s in something that was soft and more chaste than the conversation would imply.

 

Clint leaned into the contact, tilting his head so that their mouths aligned better, and tentatively settled his hands on Bucky’s hips.  Bucky swayed into the contact so that Clint’s grip was firmer, and their hips were pressed together as tightly as their chests. Clint gasped into Bucky’s mouth at the contact, and Bucky wasted no time in taking full advantage.

 

Whatever else he’d been doing for seventy years, his kissing skills hadn’t lost their edge.  Bucky kissed like he wanted to lose himself in it, with the kind of single-minded determination that he put into everything else and Clint-

 

Bucky dragged his teeth along the edge of Clint’s bottom lip and Clint stopped thinking. 

 

The kiss was hot and wet and tasted faintly of toothpaste and, underneath that, something that was intrinsically Bucky, something that Clint was seeking with his own mouth and tongue as the kiss took on an almost desperate edge of arousal.  Both of Bucky’s hands were pressed against his back, the cool metal chasing another shiver up his spine as it contrasted with the heat of Bucky’s other hand. Clint let his own hands wander, his right hand gripping tightly to Bucky’s hip, while the left dragged up his spine to the back of Bucky’s neck.

 

Clint was half-hard in his pajama pants now, the thin cotton doing absolutely nothing to hide his state of arousal, and the way Bucky was pressing against his thigh meant he probably wasn’t far behind.  He could feel Bucky’s breath coming in short pants, hot and heavy through his nose and Clint groaned again, though not in embarrassment.

 

Then Bucky dragged his hand from Clint’s waist up to his shoulder, and Clint hissed and flinched as pain flared bright where his shoulders were reminding him he’d not bothered with sunscreen at all.

 

Bucky broke the kiss, the sound of their mouths separating loud in the quiet of the room, and Clint chased after him to press their lips back together.  Bucky’s mouth on his, his hands on Clint’s body, were more than worth the tiny bit of discomfort from his own stupid sunburn.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbled against his mouth, and Clint grunted out his disagreement, still searching for more kisses.  Bucky complied, but some of the intensity had dimmed with the evidence that Clint was hurting, and Bucky gentled the kisses until they were just standing with their foreheads pressed together, breathing in each other’s air.  “Go lay down,” Bucky said, after a few minutes of regulated breathing, “I’ll be right back.”

 

And Clint wasn’t gonna argue, not if all his secret pining and wet dreams were gonna come true.

 

It still took them another couple of minutes to disentangle, a few more kisses, before they reluctantly parted and Clint went to settle himself on the neglected bed in the corner.  Clint hadn’t slept in it in- god, months? Not since the one night when Bucky had first arrived, but the bedding smelled freshly laundered and he took a moment to wonder just how much of this was planned.  

 

All of it, undoubtedly.  

 

Bucky was like Natasha that way. 

 

Clint was trying to get comfortable, propping himself gingerly on pillows against the headboard, when Bucky returned with a small bottle in his hand.

 

“Turn over,” he said, motioning at Clint.  

 

Well, this wasn’t how he’d expected this to go, but Clint rolled onto his stomach without complaint, propping his chin on his hands and glancing over his shoulder to watch Bucky’s approach.  The other man crawled gracefully onto the bed and swung his leg over Clint’s hips to settle himself on Clint’s thighs. 

 

“Better?” he asked, and it was, so Clint nodded. 

 

He heard the snap of a plastic cap opening and Clint had a moment of confusion because he still had his pants on and then he was shocked out of his musings by the squirt of cold gel on his shoulders.

 

“What the hell?” he asked, leaning up a little on his elbow to get a better look at what Bucky was doing.  Which, judging by the grin on his face and the shaking of his shoulders, was laughing at Clint.

 

“Aloe,” Bucky said, humor coating his words as he slathered the gel across the worst of Clint’s sunburn.  “Why? What’d you think it was?”

 

“You’re an asshole,” Clint grumbled, settling back down.  Bucky had known  _ exactly _ what Clint thought, and they both knew it. “I don’t even know why I like you.”

 

“But you do like me,” Bucky said, somehow managing to sound both smug and fond.  He was rubbing the gel into Clint’s skin in smooth, even strokes, massaging lightly at sore muscles and the tension along Clint’s spine.  

 

Clint was turning into jelly under Bucky’s hands, the cool metal hand felt especially good along the worst of his sunburn, and he yawned widely, his jaw cracking. 

 

“Well you _like-_ like me,” Clint mumbled, trying and failing to sound contrary.

 

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Yeah,” he agreed.  “Maybe a little.”

 

Clint drifted off under Bucky’s hands, grouching when Bucky coaxed him under the covers in the now dark and cool bedroom.  He’d turned the air conditioning unit on at some point when Clint hadn’t noticed, and now he nudged Clint over, until there was sufficient space for Bucky to scoot in beside him.  Clint grunted and rolled, tucking Bucky into his arms and shoving his nose into the back of Bucky’s neck to breathe deeply of the scent of ridiculously expensive body wash and Bucky’s own skin.

 

“Goodnight,” Bucky said, still sounding far too amused.

 

Pressing a sloppy kiss to the back of Bucky’s shoulder in response, Clint passed him his hearing aids to put on the nightstand, and then passed the fuck out.

 

*

 

Waking up with Bucky on purpose was- well it was new, and different, and exciting in a million ways, not least of which because Clint’s morning wood was  _ very _ interested in what that might entail.  But also because Clint had slept like the absolute dead, with nary a nightmare in sight, and Bucky, well he’d not slept in, but he was still in bed with Clint, propped against the headboard and reading a book when Clint roused himself. 

 

Bucky glanced down at him when he moved, Clint tilting his head up to look at the other man.

 

“Coffee?” Bucky signed, setting his book aside, and the smile Clint gave him in response was slow, sleepy, and sappy as all fuck.

 

He recognized the twisty-chest sensation at the obvious effort Bucky had made to learn sign, the same twirled-with-a-fork feeling he’d gotten in the bar in Chattanooga and all the times Bucky had made him soup and- oh.  

 

_ Oh. _

 

Well, this looked bad.

 

Luckily, Bucky didn’t seem to notice Clint’s sudden epiphany or the accompanying panic response, simply dropping a brush of lips across the top of Clint’s head before he clambered out of bed.  In his absence, Clint flopped over onto his back, hissing as his sore shoulders made contact with the sheets, and stared at the steep angle of the ceiling over the bed, studiously  _ not _ thinking about all of the squirmy feelings in his guts.

 

Clint didn’t do feelings.

 

Except, apparently, when it came to Bucky Barnes.

 

Natasha was never going to let him live this down. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to you, this fic IS going to earn it's explicit rating. I promise. Cross my heart.


	10. Leaving on a Jet Plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys make some progress, but then the plot gets in the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me or is it getting hot in here?
> 
> For anyone keeping track of the timeline, this chapter starts on June 5th.

In deference to the heat, Bucky shaved his beard.

 

Not like, off, but down to something that was more artful stubble than mountain man and Clint, to be honest, was  _ digging _ the change.

 

Especially since Bucky was currently dragging his face and lips across Clint’s bare skin, a combination of hot, wet mouth and flicks of tongue contrasting with the rough scrape of the short hair on his jaw.  He groaned as Bucky bit down on the tender spot where his shoulder met his neck, hard enough to send a sharp spike of painful-pleasure that Clint loved.

 

They were both shirtless, Clint straddling Bucky’s thighs on the couch, and what had started as soft kisses had quickly turned as scorching as the early June heat.  Even Bucky’s metal hand was warm to the touch, and both he and Clint were slightly sweaty and panting with arousal. Bucky was dragging his hands up and down Clint’s sides, pausing to thumb at his nipples or scrape his fingers down Clint’s back.  Clint, for his part, had one hand buried in Bucky’s slightly-longer-than-usual hair, tugging in retaliation, and the other gripping tightly to his shoulder for balance. He was rocking his hips, unable to help himself, searching for the friction he wasn’t quite getting. 

 

For all that they had fallen into bed together nearly a month ago, the physical aspect of their new, tenuous relationship, was a bit slow to catch up. Other than a lot of feverish make out sessions and a couple of sloppy handjobs, they hadn’t got that far. Clint was still nervous, half in disbelief that Bucky wanted  _ him _ , and Bucky was… Well, Clint wasn’t sure if Bucky was just being patient and waiting for Clint to catch up, or if he was a bit nervous himself.  He wasn’t pushing, that was for sure, but he was damn enthusiastic when the opportunity presented itself. Which it did, with increasing regularity. 

 

Today, for example.  They’d retreated indoors for relief from the blazing sun, abandoning the shed project Clint had come up with on a whim, for the marginally cooler indoors.  Bucky had stripped his shirt off halfway through the project, distracting Clint immediately, and then been all smirking looks and bedroom eyes until Clint had suggested they take a break. 

 

Standing in the kitchen, Clint had stuck his already-developing-condensation glass of ice water between Bucky’s shoulder blades, snickering.  Bucky had retaliated by shoving Clint back and then  _ dumping _ half his glass of water down Clint’s back.

 

“Guess you’ll just have to take it off,” he’d grinned, when Clint complained that his shirt was soaked.

 

One thing had led to another, which had led to their current situation.

 

Bucky’s hand brushed over the obvious sign of Clint’s  _ interest _ in the situation, pushing another deep moan out of his chest.  Clint shuddered, then yanked on Bucky’s hair until he tilted his face up so that Clint could return to kissing his mouth, deep and wet, his new favorite pastime.  He could feel Bucky’s lips curling into a grin underneath his own, and Clint bit down on his lower lip as payback.

 

The sound Bucky made in response should have been  _ illegal _ .  It probably was illegal, in all fifty states, Clint thought muzzily.

 

Bucky gripped Clint by the hips and effortlessly hauled him closer, in a blatant display of strength that left Clint almost dizzy.

 

Clint was a big guy, always had been, and being manhandled by a partner was a novel experience that was setting off fireworks in his brain and his shorts.  He hadn’t even known he was into that kind of thing until Bucky started doing it. But he was really, really into it.

 

“Fuck,” he panted against Bucky’s mouth, before diving back in, tangling their tongues and rolling his hips against the rock hard erection that was now in direct contact with his own.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, sliding his hands around to squeeze Clint’s ass.

 

Sweat was pooling at the base of his spine, and Clint was wondering whether it would be worth the effort to relocate to the bedroom where there was, you know, a bed.  And air conditioning. And a bed. Also, lube. Lube was a thing.

 

Bucky’s hands slipped below the waistband of Clint’s shorts and Bucky made a strangled, choked-off sound.

 

Clint had oh-so-helpfully been wandering around commando.  Because it was hot. Not because he was hoping to get lucky or anything.  Not at all. Just happenstance, really. Honest.

 

It was Clint’s turn to smile into their kiss.

 

“You’re a menace,” Bucky muttered, dragging his mouth away from Clint’s and down his throat, where he left a trail of nipping bites that Clint sincerely hoped were going to leave a mark.

 

“You complainin’?” Clint asked, breathless, as he tipped his head back and arched into Bucky’s touch.

 

Bucky shook his head, instead following his own meandering path across Clint’s chest and dragging his teeth across a nipple.  Clint sucked in his breath and pressed into the contact, Bucky brought the hand that wasn’t down Clint’s shorts to the neglected side and gave the other nipple a sharp twist.

 

There was absolutely nothing Clint could do to stop the punched-out, wrecked noise he made in response.

 

Switching sides, Bucky laved his tongue over the abused nub, almost apologetic, before sinking his teeth into that one too.

 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Clint panted.  Bucky’s shoulders vibrated under Clint’s hands as he chuckled.

 

Distantly, Clint heard the generic ringtone of his cellphone going off where he’d left it on the counter.  He blatantly ignored it, much more interested in his current activities.

 

“Your phone’s ringin’,” Bucky murmured, blowing cool air across the nipple he was torturing.

 

“I’ll call ‘em back in an hour,” Clint said, uncaring.  Bucky was trying to shimmy Clint’s shorts off around his thighs, without much success. “Or two,” Clint amended, shifting backwards, willing to lose the delicious friction on his cock if it meant he got to be naked.  

 

“Might be important,” Bucky argued, teasing and amused.  “Avengers business, even.”

 

“I’m retired.”  Clint was about to suggest they move to the bedroom, because rearranging themselves on this couch was getting to be more trouble than it was worth, when the ringing stopped.  He grinned triumphantly at Bucky.

 

Then the phone started ringing again, except this time it was playing  _ Star Spangled Man with a Plan _ .

 

Goddammit, Natasha. 

 

Clint groaned in an entirely different way, leaning down and letting his head thunk against Bucky’s right shoulder.

 

Cockblocked from thousands of miles away, and by the world’s stupidest theme song. 

 

“Don’t move,” Clint ordered, as he clambered off of Bucky’s lap and stumbled to the kitchen on unsteady feet. 

 

He resettled himself back on Bucky’s thighs before he answered the call.  Bucky was already running his hands across Clint’s chest and abs, drifting dangerously lower with each pass, but never quite touching the frankly obscene bulge in Clint’s shorts.  It was maddening.

 

“Barton,” Clint bit off, once he hit the accept button.

 

There was a pause, and then Steve’s voice came over the line.

 

“Clint, is- is Bucky there with you?” He sounded subdued and unsure in a way that Clint had never heard before.  He froze, leaning away from Bucky’s wandering hands. Bucky, who could clearly hear the other side of the conversation with his  _ goddamn super hearing _ , frowned, resting against the couch with his brow furrowed in concern, his hands held loosely on Clint’s thighs..

 

“Yeah Cap,” Clint answered, still slightly breathless.  “He’s-” under me, Clint didn’t say, “right here, you wanna talk to him?”

 

“Tell him I’ll call him back from my phone,” Bucky interrupted. 

 

Clint climbed off of him, much to his disappointment, though his erection was already flagging due to concern.

 

“He’ll call you back,” he dutifully relayed, watching as Bucky retreated to the bedroom to get his phone.  

 

Steve hung up, but Bucky didn’t come back out.

 

Clint threw himself into the recliner with a huff of frustration, trying to ignore the underlying current of anxiety. 

 

It occurred to him, in those moments between realizing Steve was the one calling and Bucky sequestering himself in the other room, that this might be Bucky’s call to come home.  The inevitable end of their time together, the natural conclusion of what was effectively Bucky’s house arrest. The arousal in Clint’s gut fizzled completely out, replaced by the stony weight of dread and disappointment. 

 

Before he could get mired in his own self-loathing, his phone rang again, this time playing the creepiest, most spine-chilling rendition of  _ Itsy Bitsy Spider _ that Clint had ever had the misfortune to hear.

 

“Jesus  _ fuck _ , Nat,” Clint grumbled as he hastened to hit the accept button and put an end to the nightmare song.  “Did you hack my fucking phone?” he asked, without preamble, once the call connected. “Because that is the most disturbing shit I have ever heard.”

 

“Peggy Carter is dead,” Natasha said, instead of answering his question.  Which, under the circumstances, was fair.

 

“What?” Clint asked. “What happened?”  He had visions of assassinations in the dead of night and-

 

“Nothing, she died in her sleep. Last night.”

 

Clint sighed in relief.  Then he sat up a little straighter.  “That’s why Steve’s calling.”

 

Natasha huffed.  “Yes,” she said. “He ‘felt Bucky should know’.”  Clint could  _ hear _ the air quotes in her voice.  “He’s going to tell him that he shouldn’t come to New York, but I disagree.  I think you should both come. Steve could use the support, but there are also some things coming down the pipeline that require your input and attention.”

 

“Wait, you’re back in New York- you know what, nevermind.”  They could address the fact that Natasha - and Steve, and presumably the rest of the team - was back in the country and hadn’t bothered to let Clint know later.  “You mean the Accords,” Clint realized, his mind latching on to the last thing she’d said. 

 

Natasha made one of the little sounds of agreement she had, the one that meant yes, but you weren’t going to like it.

 

Hell, Clint already  _ knew _ he didn’t like it. 

 

He was pretty well already set on retirement anyway, but this was, for him, the deciding factor.  The team didn’t really need him anyway, if he were being honest with himself. If  _ they _ were being honest with  _ themselves _ .  

 

“We can be there in…” he thought it through. Flying was so obviously out of the question that he didn’t even give it any consideration. Driving was doable, though, and he did some quick calculations in his head. The drive was about twelve hours, but they’d need time to close up the cabin and gather supplies, and Clint wanted to change cars too.  “Sixteen hours.”

 

“Good,” she said, and hung up.

 

Fucking Natasha.

 

He glanced down at his lap, noting the sad lack of any impetus to finish what he and Bucky had started. 

 

Fucking government.

 

*

 

Packing up the cabin took a little longer than he’d anticipated.  Clint shifted whatever perishable goods he could to the freezer and tossed the rest, hauling the trash bag out to the big can by the road for pickup in a couple of days.  Bucky gave the house a quick pass-through clean up, running whatever laundry they’d accumulated through a quick wash and dry cycle. Lucky’s items were gathered up, dog food mostly, along with a leash and a special harness, and loaded into the back of the truck. Both of them changed clothes, into worn jeans, boots, and comfortable t-shirts, Bucky adding a baseball hat before hooking aviators through his collar.  Clint would make due with his usual wrap-around sunglasses, and he didn’t expect either of them to garner much notice. Bucky repacked his sea-bag, though it was noticeably less full than when he’d arrived, and Clint was sort-of baffled to see that he left most of his personal items behind. 

 

He kept his confusion to himself, though, even as he packed up his own small bag.  He had plenty of clothes and weapons at both the tower and his apartment in Bed-Stuy, so he didn’t need much.  Mostly an overnight bag in case they needed to stop and his field-grade hearing aids.

 

Last stop was in the basement, where he and Bucky stood in silence, glancing at the arsenal, before mutually deciding to leave most of it behind. 

 

“Hard to transport a lot of weapons over state lines,” Clint noted, before reaching for the Smith & Wesson his alter-ego had used to obtain his concealed carry permit, along with a couple of boxes of ammunition and his bow. He didn’t hesitate to grab a set of throwing knives either. Not his best set though, because he wasn’t in a hurry to hand them over to Natasha. He still had gear in New York, but it was a long drive between here and there, and riding around unarmed made him twitchy.  The bow and arrows he could keep in the vehicle, there was no law against carrying them, but the gun and ammo would have to be locked up, or at least well-hidden. 

 

Bucky shrugged and reached for a matching pair of Sigs and ammunition, passing them to Clint, before eyeballing the selection of knives and taking a wickedly-curved K-bar with a belt sheath, and a Seal Pup which had been marketed as a diving knife, but with the partially serrated edge and textured grip, meant that it was real easy to stab someone with and still keep your grip on the bloody handle.  It was also nealy ten inches long, and Clint had his doubts about Bucky’s ability to successfully conceal it, right up until it disappeared into his boot like it had never existed. The belt knife got the same treatment, clipping onto Bucky’s belt loops just behind his right hip and then disappearing under his navy shirt. 

 

Well, alright then. 

 

“Right,” Clint said, shifting his grip on the boxes of ammunition and tucking his gun into the back of his waistband before passing Bucky his choice of firearms and slinging his bow over his shoulder.  “Let’s lock up and head out. It’s a long drive.” He armed the security system in the basement - designed to let him know if he had any unexpected visitors and lockdown the panic room - and closed up the false wall and swinging shelf, carefully shuffling equipment and junk onto it to make it appear as though it hadn’t been touched in a long while.  Or as long as possible, considering Bucky had  _ dusted the basement _ . 

 

The truck was cramped with the three of them; Lucky insisted on shuffling himself into the middle of the bench seat, half in Clint’s lap and half in Bucky’s, but Clint didn’t mind so much.  They rode with the windows down, the evening breeze blowing through the cab and Bucky’s music plugged into the dash with an aux cable. They rode like that for just under three hours, before Clint made a planned detour into Asheville.  He drove them to a non-descript storage unit on the outskirts of the city, pulling to a stop in front of a rolling steel door at the back of the facility. He cut the engine and climbed out of the cab to stretch stiff muscles and crack his neck.  

 

Bucky, he noticed, was eyeing him with something like intent.

 

“See something you like?” Clint asked, grinning, as Bucky climbed out of the cab after him, hooking Lucky to a leash. 

 

“Just some overly cocky archer.”  Bucky smirked and led Lucky off to a patch of grass off the paved path to do his business.

 

Clint snorted before moving to unlock the old, steel lock bolting the rolling unit door closed.  Good goddamn did he enjoy the sass that came with being friends? Friends with benefits? Boyfriends? He wasn’t entirely sure what they were, but he was enjoying whatever the hell it was he had going on with the guy.

 

The unit door rolled up with the usual screeching grind of metal-on-metal, and Clint was free to inventory the space.  It looked untouched since the last time he was here which, if he stopped to think about it, had been a couple of years, but everything should still be in good working order.  There was a smaller, less impressive arsenal of weapons, along with a spare identity and some indistinctive clothes, but what he was really here for was the innocuous little sedan that was carefully angled in amongst all the other stuff.  He was  _ pretty sure _ the truck would fit, if he was careful.  He went back to the truck and lifted the five gallon gas can he’d brought along to fuel up the little Honda and get it started.  

 

Once the gas was in the tank, Clint snagged the keys to the car off of the pegboard on the wall - next to, strangely enough, a wig he didn’t remember either acquiring or using - and started the car.

 

Or tried to.

 

It actually took a couple of tries for the engine to turn over and get running, but after that shaky start everything seemed to be in good working order, so he went ahead and backed it out into the space he’d left in front of the truck, and then pulled far enough forward that switching vehicles would be easy. He left it running as he and Bucky transferred their gear into the trunk and Lucky into the backseat of the Honda.

 

Bucky plucked the keys to the truck out of Clint’s hand and swung the vehicle into the empty space of the storage unit neat as you please.

 

“Do we need to empty the gas?” he asked, once the truck was parked and the engine off.

 

Clint thought about it.

 

He thought about the Avengers, and the purpose of the trip, and whether or not he’d be spending an extended amount of time in New York, and realized that, unless Bucky had a burning desire to be an Avenger, along with a burning desire for Clint to stay with him - unlikely at best - Clint didn’t intend to be gone long enough for it to matter.

 

“Nah,” he said.  

 

Bucky’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, and Clint let himself imagine it was because he anticipated coming back with Clint to get the truck and go home.

 

And that- that was dangerous thinking. 

 

In the car, Lucky seemed perfectly content to lounge across the back seats, flopped bonelessly and enjoying the air conditioning that the truck was sadly lacking, huffing small doggy snores that made Clint smile.  He backtracked to their original route, though the stop had added about two hours to their total drive time, and set the cruise control for exactly seven miles over the speed limit. Bucky leaned against the passenger seat window and closed his eyes to doze, which left Clint with nothing to do but listen to the music and sneak glances at the other man. 

 

Whether he was sleeping or not, Bucky looked calm, relaxed.  The lines in his forehead and around his mouth smoothed out, making him look younger.  He was still wearing the hat and sunglasses, so Clint couldn’t see his eyes, but the peaceful expression was tugging at Clint’s heartstrings a lot more than he wanted to admit.

 

Young Natasha had also tugged at Clint’s heartstrings, but in an entirely different way.  Natasha was his partner - his platonic soulmate - and while he’d wanted to protect her from the horrors of her past, he’d also wanted to kick ass and take names at her side.  He followed her into bullets flying, shit-hitting-the-fan, absolute shitstorm situations with a grin on his face because she was fucking awesome. He wanted her on the  _ right _ side - though clearly the choices he’d made about which side that was were now questionable - but he hadn’t wanted to shield her from action, from violence, from that side of herself that excelled in the field. 

 

Bucky was something else altogether.  Clint wanted- hell, he wasn’t even sure what he wanted.  He wanted some measure of  _ peace _ for Bucky, some respite from the horrors of everything, from fighting and death and dying, and here he was driving the man straight into what was sure to be a firestorm of guilt and emotion and tension between team members.

 

It wasn’t  _ fair _ , was all, and it gave Clint a bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Yer thinkin’ too hard,” Bucky mumbled from where he was slumped against the door.  “It’s gonna be fine.”

 

Clint snorted.  “Says you,” he grumbled.  

 

Bucky reached out and patted his thigh, comforting but still hard enough to be grounding, to remind Clint that Bucky could damn well take care of himself.  Clint’s leg might bruise, in fact. “We’ll be home before you know it,” Bucky reassured him, sliding deeper into his chair, but leaving his hand resting on Clint’s knee.

 

_ Home _ .  That sounded good.

 

Too bad Clint didn’t know if Bucky meant New York or Tennessee.

 

*

 

Clint drove another four or five hours, until he was yawning hard enough to make his eyes water and shaking his head every so often to dispel his blurry vision.  If he’d been alone in the car, Clint would have cranked the speakers up and sang loudly, but Bucky intervened long before he had to. 

 

“Pull over, I’ll drive,” Bucky announced, sometime around midnight, when Clint crossed over onto the freeway bumps that  _ kathunk kathunk kathunk _ reminded sleepy drivers they were veering off the road. 

 

Too tired to argue, Clint pulled into an abandoned rest stop a few miles later, where he and Bucky swapped seats.  Clint cranked the passenger seat back as far as it would go and, crossing his arms across his chest, settled in to nap for the rest of the ride.

 

It seemed like only moments later before Bucky was jostling him out of sleep.

 

“We headin’ to the tower or…?”

 

Clint glared blearily at the clock until the numbers resolved into focus.  It was just after four in the morning, and outside the window the outskirts of the city was discernible in the darkness.  “You made good time,” he rasped, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

 

Bucky grunted in reply.  

 

Right.  Destination.

 

It was possible  _ someone _ was awake at the tower.  If nothing else, JARVIS would be available but…

 

Clint was hesitant to disturb anyone this early in the morning and, frankly, he wanted a nap before diving headfirst into what was sure to be a complete and utter disaster, at least until they talked it out and made some decisions.  If Natasha had needed them immediately, she’d have brought the Quinjet to pick them up. 

 

Decision made, Clint rattled off the address to his apartment and shuffled back down in his seat to sleep the rest of the way to Bed-Stuy.  He woke up with a jolt when the car came to a stop.

 

Lucky was wiggling and anxious to do his business, happy to be back in a familiar environment, and Clint was debating taking him around the block before carting their luggage upstairs when Bucky held his hand out for the leash  “I got him,” he said, taking the handle, “you can get started carrying all this shit inside.”

 

“Oh I see how it is, leave me with the heavy lifting,” Clint grumbled, but he handed the leash off without complaint and paused to watch Bucky walk away, Lucky trotting happily beside him.  “Hey,” he impulsively called out. Bucky half-turned, raising his eyebrow. “Be quick, I wanna go to bed,” Clint said.

 

Bucky smirked, gave him a half-assed salute, and followed Lucky down the sidewalk.

 

Just as Clint was about to head back downstairs for the final trip to get the remaining items in the car, Bucky and Lucky trundled through the apartment door, Bucky with his seabag on one arm and Clint’s duffle on the other.  He sat both of them at the foot of the rickety stairs to the loft and then unclipped Lucky’s leash. The dog made a beeline for the bowls of food and water Clint had already set out, scarfing down the food and lapping eagerly at the water. 

 

“So,” Clint started, lifting his arms and half-turning to encompass the space.  “Kitchen’s over there and bathroom is-”

 

But Bucky was already ducking into the bathroom, the door closing behind him with a small snick, and Clint could hear water being turned on.

 

Okay, then. 

 

When Bucky came out, he slowed only enough to brush his lips across Clint’s jaw, then went straight for the kitchen and a glass of tap water, guzzling it down quickly before rinsing it and placing it in the drying rack that Clint definitely didn’t remember owning before he left.  In fact, looking around, everything in his apartment was much tidier than he remembered, barely dusty from disuse, and clutter all put away neatly.

 

Bucky was still in the kitchen, taken careful inventory of the pantry and Clint-

 

Clint had an inkling of a thought that made absolutely no sense.

 

“How do you already know where everything is?” he demanded, and Bucky looked up in confusion.

 

“This is the safehouse Steve brought me too, when I found him after Christmas.”

 

Clint just gaped at him.

 

_ What the  _ **_fuck_ ** .

 

Bucky waited expectantly for Clint to finish his fish impression.  When it didn’t appear to be happening too quickly, he left the pantry to come stand in front of Clint, his hands on Clint’s hips as he looked up at him.  

 

“You alright?” Bucky said, finally, as Clint still tried to wrap his brain around the fact that Cap -  _ Steve _ \- had been using his place to harbor an international fugitive slash his best friend.  He couldn’t decide if that showed a layer of trust Clint wouldn’t have given him credit for, or just a blatant disregard for Clint’s privacy.  “Steve said this was the safest place - that no one would look for me here, and no one would mind us using it.”

 

And that- that was painfully true.  As evidenced by the fact that Clint had agreed to harbor Bucky while Steve and Natasha were out of the country.  If Steve had called Clint up and asked to use his apartment to lay low, Clint would have agreed in a second, even knowing all details.

 

“This isn’t a safehouse,” Clint finally admitted, leaning into Bucky’s touch and resting his chin on Bucky’s shoulder.  “It’s my apartment.” He paused. “Actually, it’s my  _ building _ .”

 

Bucky started snickering, but when Clint tried to lean back and look at him, Bucky just held him tighter.

 

“That explains all the arrow holes I had to patch,” Bucky said, finally, voice still thick with mirth.

 

“Hey!  Those arrow holes were my aesthetic!”

 

“Mmm,” Bucky agreed.  “Especially the ones in the ceiling.”  He pressed his lips to Clint’s before Clint could continue the half-hearted argument. 

 

They kissed for a long, leisurely few minutes, the heat between them at a low simmer in the background.  When they separated, Bucky was flushed and just the smallest bit out of breath, something that sent a jolt of lust directly to curl in Clint’s gut.  He was worn out from the long drive, and tired as hell, but it didn’t stop his dick from giving an interested twitch.

 

“I know where the bed is, too,” Bucky added, his voice husky.

 

“Lead the way,” Clint grinned, motioning them towards the stairs. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah I know, I’m a monster. 
> 
> Even my beta reader is disappointed in me. 
> 
> Natasha’s ringtone: https://youtu.be/ePMqkExq2bY


	11. I’m With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has a lot of feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it getting Explicit up in here, or is it just me?
> 
> Also, yeah, the chapter count did go up by one. This whole chapter spiraled out of control and now we're getting 14 chapters instead of 13, yay?

Clint woke up to the rumble of Bucky’s voice against his chest and the press of lips against the back of his neck.  

 

He couldn’t  _ hear _ the words, but that didn’t really matter, with Bucky’s hands roaming over his skin and his mouth and stubble scraping against his back.  Bucky’s hand was skating up and down Clint’s bare side, his left arm tucked under the pillow beneath Clint’s head. Clint shifted, pressing into the touch and, coincidentally, pushing back against the hardness he could feel against his lower back.

 

“Hi,” Clint murmured, unable to hear the response but still able to feel it, and the grin that accompanied it, spreading against his shoulder.  He reached for his hearing aids on the nightstand next to the side of the bed he’d collapsed onto a few short hours ago, fitting them to his ears with the ease of long practice.  

 

They’d gone straight to bed and, for all the playful banter after their arrival, straight to sleep.

 

Now, though, the sun was pouring in through the windows, indicating that it was really morning, and not some dead-to-the-world, predawn abomination, and Clint was  _ horny _ .

 

Judging by the impressive erection pressed against his spine, Bucky was too. 

 

Clint really, really wanted to finish what they’d started nearly twenty-four hours ago on the couch in the cabin, where they’d been half naked and edging along the precipice of intimacy they hadn’t quite reached.

 

Well, there was no time like the present, barring some other interruption, like Tony blasting through the windows in his Iron Man suit, which Clint devoutly hoped would not be the case. 

 

He rolled over, still caught up in Bucky’s embrace, to face the man who had come to mean way more than Clint had ever intended.

 

At some point in the past twenty-four hours, Clint had come to realize that all the fluttering feelings in his chest and twisting sensations in his gut meant something Clint wasn’t wholly comfortable admitting to.  Clint wasn’t big on the L-word. He’d leaped before he looked way too often to not feel burned, and he’d left a trail of broken, irreconcilable relationships behind him. He wasn’t excited to know that this was probably going to be one of them, that he was going to walk away from this with, at best, a battered, bruised heart.  At worst, a broken one. He also realized it was much, much too late to do anything about it.

 

If Clint lost Bucky to Steve, or to the Avengers, or, hell, to the government, he was at least going to take this much with him.  This intimacy he craved, the solidity of feeling between the two of them.

 

Whoever had said it was better to have loved and lost was a fucking liar, but Clint was already way too deep to prevent the first, and he’d accept the second when it happened.

 

Bucky looked like the personification of temptation, his eyes soft as he gazed at Clint’s face and his mouth the very shape of sin waiting to happen.  His hair was an absolute mess, in disarray from sleeping on Clint’s cheap cotton sheets, and the stubble on his face already edging itself back towards beard from the five o’clock shadow it had been the day before.  Clint leaned in, pressed his mouth against Bucky’s, giving in to the lure.

 

The kiss was soft, a drugging sort of sluggishness overtaking them despite the slight dryness of Clint’s chapped lips and the morning breath they shared.

 

Clint didn’t care about any of that.  He just  _ wanted _ , and he wanted before they went to the tower and had to present themselves for whatever disaster awaited. 

 

“Good morning to you too,” Bucky said, breathless when Clint eased away. Clint trailed his across the bare skin of Bucky’s bicep. 

 

“Mmm,” Clint agreed, tugging Bucky back into his space with a hand around his neck, and Bucky took that for the demand that it was.  He slotted a leg between Clint’s, pressing up against the burgeoning erection between Clint’s thighs and making him suck in air through his nose in one wheezing, gasping intake.  

 

Bucky’s mouth was less soft this time, more hard and demanding and  _ present _ , and Clint returned the kiss with equal fervor, their tongues tangling and his own thigh now wedged underneath Bucky’s and they rocked against each other.  The pressure sent sharp spikes of pleasure up Clint’s spine, setting off fireworks in his brain, and this wouldn’t, honestly, be the first time they’d rutted against each other to completion, but Clint still  _ wanted _ , and he’d made the decision to  _ have _ , unless Bucky lodged some kind of complaint or refusal.

 

He pulled and Bucky complied, rolling until he was hovering over Clint in the middle of the bed, their mouths still fused together.  Clint wrapped his legs around Bucky’s waist, locking his ankles behind his back and rolling his hips upwards. He felt and heard Bucky’s groan in response, and he smiled into their kiss. 

 

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, rocking his pelvis into Clint’s and setting off sparks behind his eyelids.

 

“Please,” Clint responded, tiling his chin up to expose his throat. 

 

Bucky took him up on the invitation, trailing his mouth down Clint’s throat, leaving sucking, biting kisses in his wake that were sure to bruise, as he rocked his hips down in a slow, inexorable rhythm that would, eventually, probably, get the both of them off.  The press of his cock against Clint’s was maddening, the feel of him through the thin cotton of Clint’s worn-out boxer shorts and Bucky’s borrowed pajama pants purposeful and driving Clint insane.

 

“Off,” Clint gasped, pushing against the pants with his heels, trying to shove them off Bucky’s hips.

 

Bucky lifted up, out of Clint’s reach - to his intense frustration, and forcing a whine, unbidden, out of his throat - and shoved the pants down and off, kicking them down into the blankets and leaving him exposed to Clint’s gaze.

 

And what a fuckin’ view, all hard muscles and a sprinkling of hair, thick thighs and thicker cock, the kind that made Clint’s mouth water.

 

“Jesus  _ fuck _ ,” Clint groaned, reaching with grabby hands to pull Bucky down to him.

 

Bucky evaded his grip and tugged at the worn-out, Hawkeye-themed boxers Clint had worn to bed, pulling them down past Clint’s knees and then proceeding to ignore them completely as he fell on Clint like a man starved.  

 

Their kisses were less syrupy, less leisurely, and much more heated and demanding as their bare skin met and they rocked against one another.  They gripped each other just a bit too tightly, kissed with mouths that were a little too much teeth, undulated their hips with force that was almost too much.  Desperation coated them, desperation and ferocity, and Clint loved every second of it.

 

“Fuck me,” he panted, grinding his hips upwards and wrapping his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, his fingertips digging into the hard muscles of Bucky’s back.

 

The noise Bucky made sounded like it was dragged out of him, low and wanting in a way that resonated in Clint’s gut.

 

“Please,” Clint added, again, almost begging in a way he’d never done. 

 

Bucky grunted, covering Clint’s mouth with his own as he fumbled at the drawer of the nightstand on his own side of the bed.  Clint was vaguely aware of him floundering around in the drawer before an unused bottle of lube and a box of condoms fell onto the bed beside him. 

 

“What’re you a Boy Scout?” Clint asked, winded and amused.  “Always prepared?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Bucky ripped the plastic safety seal off of the lube with his teeth.  “Are you complainin’?” he asked. 

 

“You callin’ me a sure thing?” Clint countered, even as he shifted to spread his thighs, made room for Bucky between them.

 

“Nah,” Bucky disagreed, coating the fingers of his right hand in the viscous liquid.  “I am though.”

 

Clint felt something inside him go soft and molten at the admission that Bucky’d been sure of himself, even if he hadn’t been sure of Clint.  He deliberately ignored the sensation in favor of arching his body towards Bucky’s touch.

 

“I’m pretty much guaranteed,” Clint reassured Bucky, even as slick fingers reached between his legs. Then they were sliding inside him and Clint let himself float, let himself sink into the pure sensation of Bucky’s fingers in his body, stretching muscles that hadn’t been used in a while, pressing against spots inside of him that had been neglected. “Oh fuck,” Clint panted out, alternately arching into and away from the touch.  There was just enough burn to keep him grounded, to keep him anchored to the present instead of drifting away.

 

“Ok?” Bucky asked quietly, slowing his rhythm, waiting for Clint’s go-ahead.

 

“Good,” Clint said, shifting, “so good, don’t stop.”

 

Another finger, and Clint hissed at the sting before relaxing, boneless, into the arm Bucky still had wrapped around his shoulders. “Oh god,” he moaned, his spine arching at the sensation. 

 

“Oh  _ god _ ,” he said again, as Bucky’s fingers grazed against his prostate and reminding him just how much he liked this.

 

Bucky’s mouth covered his as his fingers retreated, making Clint whimper, before Bucky shifted, the blunt head of his cock replacing his fingers.  Clint groaned against Bucky’s mouth as he pushed in, past the initial resistance, invading Clint’s body in the best way. Bucky paused, fully inside of Clint, and waited, trembling, until Clint squeezed with his thighs, pulling Bucky impossibly deeper.

 

Breaking the kiss, Bucky tucked his head into Clint’s shoulder and twisted his hips, pulling a sound Clint hadn’t known he was capable of out of his throat. 

 

The sensation was impossible to describe, the feeling of fullness, the flare of pleasure up his spine when Bucky thrust just right, the way Bucky leaned over him, his body enveloping Clint’s.  It felt  _ right _ in a way that not many things in his life had, and Clint knew, even as he panted and shivered and writhed, that nothing would ever be the same after this, that nothing could be as good as this moment.  

 

Bucky sweated and shuddered above him, alternated between wrapping Clint in his embrace and reclining back, relentless in his steady pace as he watched Clint come apart beneath him.  He maneuvered until he was resting his weight on his left arm, hovering over Clint and nailing his prostate with every thrust, until Clint was incoherent with it, Bucky’s right hand on his hip to hold him in place as he drove forward.  Grey eyes watched his every move, his every response, and Clint couldn’t find it in himself to hide from that piercing gaze. Or hide his reactions, anyway. Eventually he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the pleasure of it, and let Bucky see what he would. 

 

It was, after all, all Clint had to offer. 

 

When he tumbled over the edge of orgasm it was nearly silent, his body seized up in bliss as Bucky kept moving over him, releasing Clint’s hip to grasp his dick and coax him through the most earth-shattering climax of his life.  Clint panted and writhed as Bucky chased after him, coming with a groan that sounded like it was bone-deep, a release of tension so poignant that Clint could do nothing except gather Bucky close to him and hold him until both of their breathing evened out into synchronicity.  

 

Letting Bucky go, Clint was convinced, was going to be the most painful experience of his life.

 

*

 

It shouldn’t have surprised Clint to stumble downstairs, loose-limbed and relaxed, and find Natasha reclined on his sofa, flipping through what appeared to be a field report, but it did.

 

“No shoes on the couch,” he said, automatically, then winced. There had been much worse than shoes on that couch, but it’d somehow, in the last few months, become habit  _ not _ to wear shoes on the furniture. To take them off at the door and leave them there to be easily found again later, instead of kicked underneath the furniture or scattered in the corner.  Just like it’d become habit to hang keys on hooks and feed Lucky on a schedule and a thousand other, tiny things that Clint hadn’t noticed at the time but was now painfully aware of.

 

Natasha smirked at him, but dutifully swung her legs off of the cushions and onto the floor, setting the paperwork aside. She looked him over from head to toe, her smile widening as she took in his disheveled appearance.

 

“I’d say domestication looks good on you, but you look like that.”  She made an all-encompassing gesture.

 

Clint glanced down.

 

He was wearing the pajama pants  _ Bucky _ had been wearing earlier, creased from their time tangled in the sheets and worn thin to begin with, no shirt, no socks, and he could see at least three patches of reddened, raised skin from Bucky’s beard.  There was no telling what his hair and throat looked like, but he could guess.

 

He shrugged.  “You’ve seen me look worse.”

 

The smile now looked like something a predator would wear, just before it pounced. “I have,” she agreed. “But all that country living seems to agree with you.”  Natasha somehow manage to make the words  _ country living _ sound lewd. 

 

Clint rolled his eyes.  In the kitchen, he could see that the coffee pot had already been started and there was a bag of bagels, and for that he could forgive her just about anything. He unthinkingly poured two mugs of coffee - another habit he’d acquired - but was saved from having to explain by Natasha snagging the extra one from behind him.  They slurped in silence for a few minutes, Clint gnawing on an everything bagel and Natasha eyeing him with undisguised triumph until he huffed at her.

 

He raised his eyebrow in an unspoken question.

 

“You look happy,” she said, somewhere between smug and gleeful.  “Don’t fuck it up.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at her.  That sounded suspiciously like she’d planned… something. Everything.

 

“There’s a team meeting at the tower in two hours,” she continued, heedless of his glare.  “I’ve told Tony you’re coming, don’t be late.” 

 

Clint sighed as she breezed out the door, leaving her half-drunk mug of coffee behind.   He added it to his cup and reached into the cabinet for another one for Bucky. As always, Nat’s timing was impeccable, because Clint could just barely hear the shuffle of feet upstairs, signaling that his- his whatever they were, which was a talk Clint wanted to have approximately never - was now awake.

 

Sure enough, Bucky wandered down the stairs a few seconds later, looking warm and sleep-rumpled, in a pair of Clint’s boxer shorts.  Clint squinted at the design for a few seconds before he burst into laughter. They were faded black, with little boxes of cereal all over them, all of which had been mangled in various ways.

 

Bucky took the coffee cup from Clint’s hand before he spilled it everywhere, drinking deeply before setting it aside on the counter.  He eased into Clint’s space, one hand against Clint’s hip and the other coming up to thumb at what was probably a mark on Clint’s throat, smirking.

 

“Cereal killer,” Clint wheezed, still cracking up.  Bucky’s grin widened. “I-”  _ love you _ , Clint thought but didn’t say, and abruptly his mirth subsided. 

 

Catching the change in mood, Bucky’s smile softened into something warm and inviting, and he smoothed his hand up Clint’s throat to his face, until his thumb rested on Clint’s jaw and his fingers tangled in the short hair at the nape of his neck.  Bucky used the grip to tilt Clint’s face down, pressing their mouths together in a long, coffee-flavored kiss that felt so much like home that Clint’s chest ached. 

 

Bucky, Clint thought, was some kind of miracle, pressed against him all sleep-warm and solid, kissing him like he had nowhere and nothing he’d rather be doing, and Clint wanted nothing more than to be back in Tennessee, just the two of them and their dog and that-

 

That was the most dangerous, impossible thing he’d ever wanted. 

 

He eased back with a gentle, barely-there brush of lips.

 

“We’re due at the tower at one o’clock,” he informed Bucky with a grimace, and all at once the ease of the morning disappeared, swallowed under the sudden tension in Bucky’s frame, and Clint regretted saying anything at all. He leaned back in for another kiss, a totally transparent effort to distract.  “Shower with me. I’ll wash your back,” he offered, and Bucky gave him a tight-lipped smile.

 

“Smooth,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes, but it lacked some of his his usual snark. Still, he followed Clint to the bathroom and allowed him to scrub his body with bare hands and his favorite body wash, let Clint massage his scalp with shampoo and dry him off with one of the threadbare towels in the linen closet. 

 

Back in the bedroom, Clint eyed his closet and Bucky’s sparsely packed bag for inspiration.  

 

“Brooklyn hipster,” he decided, looking at Bucky’s shaggy hair and barely-a-beard.  He passed Bucky a pair of jeans that were old enough to be back in style, leftovers from Clint’s younger, twinkier days, and an Iron Fist t-shirt that Kate had thought  _ hilarious _ after the cops had mistaken him for the wanna-be vigilante the last time he’d gotten arrested.  Bucky’s own scuffed boots, a flannel shirt that he cuffed the sleeves on, and a pair of plastic, thick-framed blank glasses completed the look.  Cint tugged a slouchy grey beanie over Bucky’s head at the last second and said “Ta-da!”

 

Bucky’d pulled the silicone sleeve over his arm before he got dressed and the outfit made him look every inch a militant Brooklynite. Adding a fake ‘service dog’ vest and harness to Lucky only served to draw attention from his face.  He didn’t look even remotely like any circulating pictures of either the Winter Soldier  _ or _ Bucky Barnes.  

 

“It’s too fuckin’ hot for a hat,” Bucky grumbled, but he didn’t take it off of his head, either.

 

“It’s too fuckin’ early in the day to get arrested for being a wanted fugitive,” Clint countered, pulling on his own jeans and t-shirt, completely unable to stop staring at Bucky.

 

Clint wanted Bucky to wear his jeans forever, because holy shit.

 

He wanted to tear the clothes off and throw him back down on the bed. 

 

Honestly, Clint just wanted Bucky in his clothes and his bed and his  _ home _ , but he carefully pushed the thought away.

 

“C’mon,” he said, instead of any of that, “we’re gonna be late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not support or endorse the use of fake service animal vests, and in fact, if I find out you did this I will find you and I will punch you in the throat. My brother is blind and he has had several service dogs over the course of his life and I love them and him, and people who abuse or fake service animals cause problems for people like him all the time. Don't. Do. It.
> 
> But yeah, it does serve a convenient plot purpose here.


	12. Blaze of Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A team meeting that doesn’t end in a murderous robot invasion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline is getting realllllll hazy right about now.

Clint took one look at the tension radiating off of Bucky and made the unilateral decision that they would not be taking a bus and  two subways to midtown.

Instead, they circled Avengers’ Tower for twenty minutes trying to find parking before Clint finally wedged the car into a spot he snagged that barely skirted the fifteen foot limit on fire hydrants, just behind the worst parking job he might have ever seen.  The front wheel of the SUV in front of them was actually _on_ the curb, and the back end of the car protruded into the street a good six inches.  If it didn’t get sideswiped Clint would, personally, be astounded.

Bucky snorted in amusement, but as they climbed out of the car and began the walk towards the ostentatious tower that jutted out above the surrounding buildings, his shoulders crept higher and higher and he looked increasingly cagey.  He was holding Lucky’s harness in his right hand, his left tucked into his pocket and projecting _prosthetic_ with a stiff elbow, and his mouth was turned down in a scowl Clint hadn’t seen since their early days in the cabin.  

Clint reached out and slung his arm over Bucky’s shoulders, aiming for friendly and reassuring.  The way Bucky stiffened underneath him made Clint freeze, wondering if he’d made a huge mistake, but all at once Bucky went lax, leaning a little into Clint’s side and exhaling roughly.

“Okay?” Clint asked, just to be sure, and Bucky nodded, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

“Stark’s gonna be there,” Bucky offered, after a minute of silence, and then shrugged.  

And that, Clint figured, was the crux of the issue.  Bucky would walk through literal fire for Steve Rogers, and Tony Stark was gonna be a complete shit about everything, because Stark was nothing if not an abrasive asshole.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t be or wasn’t generous with his friends - he was - but he was also antagonistic and impossible and frustrating on a whole other level, especially when he felt he was the wronged party.  

In this case, he _was_ the wronged party, and Bucky was a convenient target for his ire.

It didn’t help that Bucky felt guilty as hell.

Clint understood that.  Every time he thought he had a handle on his own feelings of shame and inadequacy, something popped up to remind him exactly how and when and where he’d failed, and that didn’t even touch on the whole Loki debacle.

But, Tony had been able to look past Clint’s fuck ups and culpability, and Clint figured once he had the time to work through his shit, he’d be able to look past Bucky’s too.  It wasn’t Bucky’s _fault_ , no matter how Bucky felt about it, and everyone could, objectively, see that.

It was just whether or not Tony had had enough time to _be_ objective about it.

Tony Stark’s daddy issues weren’t gonna help the matter, though.  Clint sighed.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, trying to sound confident and failing miserably.  “Nat told him we were comin’. She won’t let him shoot us on sight.”

Bucky huffed a little in amusement, but it didn’t get the laugh Clint was aiming for.  He hefted the backpack over his shoulder a little higher, pulled Bucky in a little closer as they approached the tower.  Whatever Tony thought of Bucky, Clint wasn’t going to stand by and let him take it out on Bucky. He had a few ideas for how to handle it if it came down to that.

On the elevator ride up, Bucky finally shrugged out from under Clint’s arm, taking a couple of steps to the left.  Clint gave him a questioning look, but Bucky just waved it off. Clint… didn’t really know what to do with that. He didn’t know if Bucky just needed space to feel like he could defend himself or didn’t want the team to make assumptions about them or didn’t want the team to _know_ and-

And it was too late to ask, because the elevator was gliding to a smooth stop and FRIDAY was announcing their presence.  

“Agent Barton and his... guest have arrived.”  

Clint liked FRIDAY.  She was a little snarkier than JARVIS had been, a little less dry in her sense of humor.  A little more likely to sass Tony outright. And, apparently, a lot more inclined to make the word _guest_ have connotations that, while not untrue, weren’t exactly necessary under the circumstances.  

Clint rolled his eyes.  “Thanks, FRIDAY,” he muttered, sarcastically.

“It’s no trouble, Agent Barton,” she answered brightly.

Bucky snickered.

FRIDAY had delivered them to the communal floor at the top of the tower where, Clint had to admit, he had a lot of good memories and one very, very bad one involving the arrival of a murderous robot A.I. and frankly, Clint felt Tony could have chosen a different venue.  It didn’t exactly bode well for discussion if everyone was twitchy and surrounded by reminders of the last time they’d had a group disagreement.

The furniture, at least, was different, and most of the metal and glass railings were gone, replaced with smooth, light colored wood and comfortably upholstered sofas.  Pepper had done the redecorating, Clint figured, because it was a lot less futuristic engineer meets a welder and a lot more homey. The windows were darker, too, though that could be because of the afternoon sunlight and not a conscious design choice.  

The rest of the Avengers were already there, except Bruce, who’d been absent since Sokovia, and Thor, who was who-the-fuck-knew where, possibly on another planet.  Which really meant that only Tony, Steve, and Natasha were left of the original crew. Tony’s friend Rhodey was present, sitting at a marble-topped dining table, and Clint recognized Sam Wilson sitting next to Wanda on one of the couches.  Vision was… yep, he was floating slightly off the floor next to the window, overlooking the city.

Guy was fuckin’ _weird_.

Steve and Natasha were-

Clint did a double-take.

“You stole my beard idea!” he accused, pointing at Natasha, who was reclining on the sofa with her feet in Steve’s lap.  Steve, who looked like some kind of sugar daddy wet dream with a _beard_ and his hair a bit longer and not quite so blond.  “What the _fuck_ , Nat, that’s cheating!”

She rolled her eyes.

Steve was looking between Clint and Bucky - who had sidled up close to Clint’s side and was almost, but not quite, touching him and letting their hands brush against one another - with a furrowed brow.

Lucky planted himself across Clint and Bucky’s toes, flopping lazily over their boots with his tongue lolling and the harness listing to one side.  

“Clint why would you bring a guest to a… team… meet- Bucky?!”

“Yes!” Clint fist-pumped.  “I win!”

Natasha had a sour look on her face, but she obligingly tossed a set of electronic ‘keys’ to him.  “It’s actually in the Seychelles,” she said, “but in the spirit of the agreement, you can use it whenever you like.”

Clint pocketed the keys with a grin.

“Do I even want to know?” Bucky said, drolly, and Clint scratched the back of his neck.

“Eh, probably not.”

“They bet on you and Capsicle’s disguises,” Tony supplied.  “Natasha lost when I recognized Steve, because the lumberjack beard does fuck-all against the Iron Man suit’s facial recognition technology, although I suppose if Steve had tried talking to me like a normal person when I wasn’t wearing it, it might have worked.”  Tony tapped a pen against his chin in thought. “Those shoulders though, hard to disguise.” He pointed the pen at Bucky’s arm. “Nice work on that though, what is that a glove? You can’t tell the arm is metal at all, but the synthetic skin look is terrible. I can do better.”

And that, that was a good thing.  That Tony was basically offering to give Bucky something better to hide his arm with, that was a good sign.  Maybe.

Bucky shrugged.  “I dunno, Clint ordered it.”

“It’s a silicone theater prop,” Clint said.  “Made to measure.”

Bucky blinked at him.

In the time they’d spent discussing it, Steve had lifted Natasha’ feet of his lap and settled them gently on the floor, walking across the room to meet Clint and Bucky.  As he passed Natasha, he brushed his hand across her shoulder casually, and Clint narrowed his eyes at her.

 _Are you fucking Captain America?_ he signed in disbelief.

 _Are you fucking the Winter Soldier?_ she signed back, rolling her eyes again.

And yeah, ok that was fair, but still-

Bucky snickered again, and Clint felt his face flush red.

“It’s rude to talk in other languages at a party,” Tony sing-songed.  

“I believe what Agent Barton is trying to communicate is a question regarding the carnal nature-” Vision began and Clint buried his face in his hands.

“Hey, now, we’ve talked about this Viz,” Sam Wilson, god bless him, interrupted.  Clint could have kissed him.

“If this is another party, I’m leaving early,” Rhodey announced.  “The last one didn’t go so well.”

“It could be a party,” Tony said. “We could play truth or dare.  Like a sleepover. For instance, we could ask Birdbrain about the truthful meaning behind the conversation he’s trying to have with Red Scare about certain proclivities I’d be very interested in hearing more about.”

“Ok, ok, I get it,” Clint groaned.  “I will have my very private conversation with my best friend in a more private location _later_ , Jesus Christ.”

Bucky nudged him, clearly amused, and Clint hip-checked him in response.  Lucky’s collar jangled as he rearranged himself over their movement, sitting at Bucky’s side with his tail twitching into an almost-wag.

Steve came to a halt in front of the two of them, but he only had eyes for Bucky.  “I told you you didn’t have to come, punk,” Steve said, finally, after a moment of taking in Bucky’s entire ensemble.

“Yeah, well, you know me.  I never listen to you,” Bucky said, shrugging awkwardly.  “Couldn’t leave you alone for this one. Carter’d have killed me.”

Steve set his jaw, pressing his lips into a thin line, and Clint was suddenly reminded of exactly _why_ they’d come.  It wasn’t to win his bet with Natasha, or entertain Tony, or even to settle this Accords business, which Clint had already decided he was having no part of.  No, they’d come so that Bucky could have Steve’s back, like he’d always meant to do. Steve yanked Bucky into a backslapping hug, causing Lucky to lurch up and bark at them, one of his happy dog smiles coming out as he pranced around the two supersoldiers before finally jumping up and planting his paws on Bucky’s hip and licking the side of his neck.

“Lucky, down,” Bucky said, extracting himself from Steve’s grip and ruffling the dog’s neck.  “You’re still my favorite blond,” he added, grinning when Steve snorted.

“Well as delightful as this reunion is,” Tony said, “we’re supposed to be talking Avengers business so if the Terminator wants to go hang out on Steve’s floor-”

“He’s staying,” Steve said, stubborn as ever, at the same time that Clint said “If he goes, I go,” which got both of them bewildered looks from Tony.  He glanced helplessly between them before throwing his hands up. “Fine, fine, the murderbot stays, whatever.”

“The only ‘murderbot’ around here is the one you invented, Tony,” Steve said, his voice low with warning, and Tony actually flinched, minutely, before he covered it up with a bland expression.  Rhodey was rubbing the bridge of his nose, and Sam had scooted to the edge of his seat as though to intervene, but Wanda placed a restraining hand on his knee.

Clint sighed.

“Mátia mou,” he said to Wanda, opening his arms, and she darted over, wrapping him in her own hug and derailing the oncoming argument.  

“Come,” she said, tugging him towards the couch, “tell me what you’ve been doing.”  She smirked, her eyes flicking over his shoulder towards Bucky. “Or who,” she murmured, and Clint rolled his eyes.

“You can literally read minds,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but it’s rude.”

Tony snorted.

Bucky squatted down and took the harness off of Lucky, who shook himself enthusiastically before trotting over to Natasha and flopping at her feet in a lazy sprawl, belly exposed.  Clint’s dog liked _everyone_ better than him, it seemed. Natasha didn’t even have to look as she reached down and scritched the fluffy stomach being presented to her, and Lucky let out a happy whine.  She was flipping through a thick binder, and when Clint raised his eyebrow at her she held it up for him to see the first page.

It was the Accords, and it looked to be about three-hundred pages of text.

Ugh.

He was really glad he wasn’t signing it, because then he’d have to _read_ it in its entirety. He’d skimmed enough of it on the internet to get the general gist, and that was enough to know he didn’t want any part of it.

Rhodey brought another copy over to the main sitting area where everyone else was already basically gathered and dropped it on the coffee table in the middle.  Clint settled himself back into the couch with a cup of coffee, and Bucky eased onto the arm next to him, still not touching him but very much present. Wanda tucked herself up against his side as Tony started talking.

Clint let it wash over him, his head tilted back and his eyes closed.  It was all the same arguments he would have expected, though the fact that _Tony_ of all people was trying to sell them on government oversight was surprising.  Vision’s claim that the Avengers drew more, bigger supervillains to them seemed inane to Clint.  He had a lot of experience with criminal enterprises, and it never seemed to him that they’d needed much excuse for their crimes.  If it wasn’t the Avengers it would be something else. It could hardly be said that the Avengers had attracted _Loki_ after all, as much as the Tesseract had, and that hadn’t been on the team.  That had sat directly on Nick Fury’s shoulders, if Clint was honest. Rhodey, of course, was on Tony’s side, but he was career military.  Wanda shrank further and further into Clint’s side, Steve got steadily angrier, and Nat increasingly neutral.

It was all incredibly, incredibly stupid.

“We need to be put in check!” Tony near-shouted, and before Steve could lean forward and really get in his face about it, Clint snorted.

Tony, he finally understood, was _afraid_.  He’d created a murderous, dictatorial robot that had nearly eliminated life on Earth and now he was course-correcting wildly in the entirely opposite direction.  The one where he’d have no responsibility and couldn’t, in his mind, cause any more trouble.

The guy needed some therapy.

And coming from Clint, that was saying something.

“You got something to add, Birdbrain?” Tony asked, sarcastically.  “Or are we interrupting your nap?”

Clint stretched and cracked his neck audibly.  “This isn’t about oversight,” Clint said, thoughtfully.  “Or at least, it’s only marginally about oversight. And, you know, I don’t have strong feelings about that one way or another. I mean, if you think the team needs handlers, that’s up to you guys.  I don’t really agree, but I just spent fifteen years working for S.H.I.E.L.D. which turned out to really be Hydra, so you could say I’m a little gun shy on government agencies right now.” He shrugged.  “But really, it’s about registering people, and I can tell that just from the news, I didn’t even read the entire thing.” He gestured at the behemoth stack of paper on the table.

“It’s about keeping track of _dangerous people_ ,” Tony argued.  “Like superpowered assassins!”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, and Clint sighed.  He got up from the couch, carefully shifting Wanda away from him, and grabbed the backpack he’d dropped by the elevator when they arrived.  He pulled out a slim file folder and brought it back.

“I think it’s a little convenient - and by a little, I mean a lot,” Clint started, fiddling with the file, “that the whole team was only given three days to read a bill that large, when you’re effectively signing your life and rights away.  I think it’s a little coincidental that it happened at the same time that Peggy Carter died, leaving Cap emotional and prone to… overreaction.” He shot Steve an apologetic glance, but Steve just nodded at him. “I don’t really believe in coincidence, I don’t really think that’s something that happens all that often in real life.  Like it was an interesting ‘coincidence’ that I was off on a wild goose chase when the Winter Soldier tried to kill Captain America, and I think it’s an interesting ‘coincidence’ that we haven’t heard _anything_ about these Accords until just now when they’re forcing our hand to sign them.”

He slid the folder across the table in false casualness, except that it came to a stop less than a centimeter from Tony’s fingertips. The other man glanced down at it and back at Clint.

“What is this?”

Clint shrugged, sipping his coffee. “You were talking about data and dangerous assassins.” He gestured towards the folder.

Tony flipped through it angrily. There wasn’t much there - it was just a list. Names, sometimes, or initials. Dates. A few non mission-critical details.

“The Winter Soldier’s greatest hits?” Tony sneered.

“Nope,” Clint answered, letting the p pop like gum. “Mine. It’s twice as long as his.”

Tony’s jaw snapped shut as he flipped through the file to the back.

There were 128 names in the file.  Number 123 was Phil Coulson. Clint saw the moment Tony recognized a name, though whether it was Phil’s or someone else’s, he didn’t know.  The other man’s shoulders stiffened and he opened his mouth, but Clint cut him off again.

“I am actually the deadliest person in the room.”  Clint took another sip from his mug. “Not because I lose my temper and raze a small town to the ground.  Or because I accidentally build a murder robot that tries to take over the world. But because I pick up a weapon and kill people, on purpose. I’m a dangerous assassin.”

Tony was watching him now, Clint could feel the weight of his full attention.

“I don’t have to sign that.”  Clint jerked his chin at the copy of the Accords they’d all been arguing about.  

“No one does,” Tony started, and Clint held up a hand.

“I don’t have to sign that,” Clint repeated, undeterred.  “And if I don’t sign it, nothing happens. I retire. I go back to my house and do whatever I want.  My record was expunged by S.H.I.E.L.D. I’m not superhuman. I’m not _enhanced_.”

Tony just stared at him, and Clint sighed.

“Who else in the room can say that they can refuse to sign that with no consequences?”  Clint waited a beat. “What happens if _you_ don’t sign it Tony?  Yeah, you can’t be Iron Man anymore.  Maybe they make you melt the suit down.  But when it’s gone? You’ll still be a genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist.  Look around. If the other people in this room - most of them - if they don’t sign it, they become international fugitives.  If they don’t submit to registration. You want the Avengers to have some kind of oversight? Fine. But making people register for being people? That’s not ok.  You know who else doesn’t have to sign it?”

Tony looked around, brow furrowed, and Clint hoped that meant that some of what he was saying was penetrating.

Clint gestured at Bucky.  “He doesn’t have to sign it.  Maybe the Winter Soldier is an international fugitive, but Bucky Barnes is a war hero. A dead war hero, who doesn’t actually exist anymore. A prosthetic is not an enhancement.  The Accords has a specific exemption clause for them, which, by the way, is another interesting coincidence. Natasha doesn’t have to sign it - she’s specially trained, but not superhuman.  Her record was expunged too.” He paused again. Waited for Tony to say something, but the other man was staring at the stack of papers on the counter.

“The three deadliest assassins in the world don’t have to sign that, but Captain America does?  What happens to the people who don’t sign it Tony? Where do they go? What happens to them? What happens to Wanda if she decides she doesn’t want to put her life and freedom into someone else’s hands again?”

Tony flinched, which meant he knew the answer.

“I’m not signing that,” Clint said, making sure his stance was perfectly clear.  “I’m retired. I can’t be Hawkeye anymore anyway, my identity is burned. I’m not signing up to kill people for the government again.”

Clint left his empty mug on the counter as he turned to go.  Bucky fell into step behind him.

“Where are you going?” Steve finally said, exhaustion coloring his tone.

Clint snorted.  “To do what all the other ex-brainwashed, ex-assassins are doing.”

The silence this time was expectant and Clint could feel Bucky’s amusement at his shoulder.

“Which is?” Sam finally asked.

“We’re going to hate-fuck each other until the rest of you get your shit together,” Bucky said, matter-of-factly.

*

Clint barely, just _barely_ , managed to keep it together until the elevator doors shut behind them, Lucky squeezing in at the last second, and then he was _dying_.  Gut-wrenching, shoulder-shaking, honest-to-god tears streaming down his face he was laughing so hard.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed.  “Oh my god, I can’t believe you fuckin’ said that.”

Bucky shrugged, grinning like he hadn’t all day.  “Worth it. Wish I’d gotten to see Stevie’s face though.  Kinda ruins the effect if you look back, you know?”

It made Clint laugh _harder_ , imagining Steve- imagining _Tony’s_ face.  God. It was probably chaos in there now.  Or dead, shocked silence. Who knew?

FRIDAY deposited them on Clint’s floor without being asked, and almost with a note of disapproval in her silence, but Clint couldn’t make himself feel bad about it.  He’d said all he had to say, and fuck it, he thought he was right. Steve and Tony would get over it, or they wouldn’t, but Clint had done it. He’d decided to be out and he _was_ , he was out.  No more Hawkeye - well, there hadn’t been Hawkeye for a while, ever since his identity became a top five Google search - and he’d mostly made his peace with that.  He supposed, technically, that he was still some kind of government agent. He’d been a S.H.I.E.L.D agent and he thought he remembered Natasha saying they’d been migrated over to the CIA in the aftermath of S.H.I.E.L.D. going tits-up.  Carter had apparently had a niece in the agency with some pull.

Clint’s floor smelled clean and unused the way expensive hotel rooms smelled.  Like nothing and nobody personal. The floor itself had been furnished when Tony had given it to Clint, and very little had changed.  There were almost no personal effects - Clint had never thought of this place as home - but there were a few things. A knitted purple throw blanket that Katie had given him, a spare bow mounted to the wall, a target down the hallway.  Clint kept some spare changes of clothes and basic toiletries here, too, for post-mission debriefs.

There was even a small bag of dog food under the sink, though Clint wasn’t sure exactly how old it was.  Dry kibble didn’t go bad did it?

Bucky threw himself onto the sofa in the living room, looking pensive and a bit shell-shocked.  For all that he’d delivered a perfect exit line, it was clear none of this was settling easily for him.

“Hey,” Clint said, stepping closer and sitting on the coffee table across from Bucky, leaning with his elbows propped on his knees.  “You okay?”

Running his fingers through his hair, Bucky sighed, bone-deep and weary.  “Yeah, I- yeah. It’s just, you know, it’s just a lot. And Peggy... I don’t know.”

Clint chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second before he answered.  He reached out, threading his fingers between Bucky’s silicone-covered metal ones, tangling them together and squeezing.  “Look, I’m- if you wanna go, we can go. We don’t gotta stay. I know you’re tryin’ to be here for Steve, I get it, but if all this,” he gestured vaguely with his free hand, “is too much, we can leave.  Back to the apartment, or back to the cabin or- or whatever you need.”

Bucky stared at him in disbelief for a handful of heartbeats, confusion and something else Clint couldn’t quite name passing over his features.  “You- but-” he shook his head. “What about all this Avengers stuff?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I think I made it pretty clear I’m _retired_ , Barnes.  I’m here for you, babe.”

Bucky arched an eyebrow and oh, shit.  Maybe they weren’t- maybe he shouldn’t have said-

But then Bucky was reaching out, pulling Clint forward and to the side, dumping him onto the sofa and then crawling into his lap.  He settled his weight across Clint’s thighs, Clint scooting down until the heat of his body and the press of his ass was at the perfect angle, you know, just in case this was going in the direction it appeared to be headed in, and waited.  Bucky rested his hands on Clint’s shoulders, staring down at him like he could see through Clint’s face straight into his soul, which was a mildly uncomfortable thought, but Clint held still and let him look, reaching up to grab Bucky’s hips.  For balance, or so he told himself.

“Babe, huh?” Bucky smirked down at him, looking a little amused and a lot smug.

Clint shrugged.

“Alright sweetheart,” Bucky drawled, leaning down.  “Guess I can work with that.”

And if being called _sweetheart_ in that low, rough drawl really did it for Clint, well, it didn’t matter because Bucky covered his mouth with his own and swallowed whatever Clint might have said in response.

Clint allowed himself to get lost in the warm, wet press of his mouth and the subtle shift of his thighs.  Let his hands wander, the left sliding down to cup a handful of Bucky’s ass, the right up and under the thin cotton t-shirt Bucky was wearing.  Bucky in his clothes was really doing it for him, Clint had to admit, a thought that had been on the back burner since they stepped off the elevator and into the minefield of the common room, but which was quickly making its way back to the forefront of Clint’s mind.  Bucky groaned into his mouth when Clint tweaked his nipple and Clint smiled into their kiss.

In retaliation, Bucky ground down hard against Clint’s thickening erection, threaded his fingers through Clint’s hair and tugged, and it was Clint’s turn to moan desperately.

“Fuck,” he forced out, letting his head be pulled backwards as Bucky’s mouth shifted from his lips to his jaw and then trailed down his throat.  He already _had_ beard burn, though it had faded significantly since the morning, and he had bruises too, leftover love bites hidden under the collar of his t-shirt, and now, he was sure, he’d have other, more visible ones.  “You like marking me up, huh?” Clint said, breathless, as Bucky laved his neck with teeth and tongue and sucking hard enough that it was a sharp painful-pleasure that ran down Clint’s spine.

“Maybe,” Bucky agreed, sounding perfectly blissed out.  He let go of Clint’s hair to shuck the flannel shirt he’d been wearing, reached under the sleeve of the t-shirt to strip the silicone cover off of his arm.  “Can’t feel anything through the damn glove,” he explained, breathless, and then his hands were back on Clint, everywhere at once, cool metal and calloused palms in stark contrast against Clint’s bare skin as Bucky shoved his shirt up under his armpits.

Clint leaned forward enough to reach behind his head and yank the t-shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and Bucky’s mouth trailed further down, along his collarbones and chest.  Clint petted restlessly at Bucky’s head and shoulders, alternately trailing his fingers through the escaped strands of Bucky’s hair, and gripping his back for dear life as Bucky did amazing and possibly illegal things with his mouth.

“Christ on wheels, I thought you were _joking_.”

Bucky and Clint both jumped, Clint reaching out instinctively to keep Bucky from falling out of his lap.  Bucky turned a furious glare on the intruder. “Ain’t you ever learned to _knock_ , Rogers?”

Steve stood a few feet away, looking sheepish and more than a little surprised, with Natasha trailing at his heels looking smugly satisfied.  

Clint groaned in frustration, letting his head thump back against the backrest, and then sighed as Bucky climbed out of his lap.  His shirt landed on his head, and he dragged it down irritably, glaring at Natasha who had clearly thrown it from the chair she was now sitting in.  Pulling it over his head, Clint did his best to subtly adjust himself as he sat back down, tugging at the leg of his jeans to hopefully give him a little more room in the crotch area, which made Nat snicker.

“Oh fuck off,” he grumbled.  “Your timing is the worst.”

“It’s called the element of surprise,” Natasha responded sweetly.  “I’m a spy, I’m supposed to have it.”

“You’re supposed to practice it on your _enemies_ ,” Clint snarked back, dragging a hand down his face.

Bucky coughed a laugh into his fist as he curled up against the arm of the sofa, kicked his shoes off under the coffee table, and stuck his feet under Clint’s thigh.

Steve was still staring at them with undisguised surprise.  

“We were joking about the hate part,” Bucky said, finally, when it was clear Steve could think of _nothing_ to say.  “Not the fucking part.  Sit down, you’re givin’ me a crick in my neck starin’ up at you.  What’d you come up here for anyway?”

Steve collapsed into a chair like his strings had been cut, scrubbing his hands over his own face in exhausted resignation.  

“Tony already signed the Accords.”

“Of fucking course he did,” Clint grumbled.  “He’s never made a decision he shared with the class before he just up and fucking did it.  What else is new?”

“He signed them in _May_.”

“Well that’s monstrously fucked up,” Bucky said, conversationally.  “What’s that got to do with us?”

Clint really liked the way Bucky said ‘us’, like they were in it together, like they were making joint decisions.  He liked it a little too much, actually, considering Bucky had never intended or been invited to sign, and in fact didn’t actually exist, and Clint had made his stance clear.  

“Rhodey signed them too,” Steve went on, frustration evident in his voice.  “The rest of us… talked, after you left.”

Natasha let out a delicate little snort that meant that what Steve was really saying was they’d all yelled at each other for another half hour.  She stretched out and gave Steve a less-than-gentle kick with the toe of her boot. He let her do it, swaying with the contact, and shot her an unbearably fond look.  

Clint nearly gagged.  They were definitely fucking.  Bucky caught his eye and jerked his chin at the two of them, raising his eyebrows in question.  Clint rolled his eyes in response and made a face before he nodded. Bucky’s face split into a quick, sharp smirk.

“Sam suggested a press conference,” Natasha took up the story where Steve left off.  “We’ve all… agreed… to publically disband, on the grounds that we are-” she thought for a second, choosing her words carefully.  “Conscientious objectors to the registration requirement. Make it clear we aren’t objecting to oversight, but rather to the idea that people should be registered like weapons.”  She paused again. “So. No more Avengers. Just Tony and Rhodey and, apparently, Vision, which was a surprise.” She turned to look at Clint, her head tilted thoughtfully. “You and I are still agents of record, currently on semi-permanent loan to the CIA.  But I think you should come to the press conference, make it clear that you’re stepping down as well. As one of the non-enhanced members of the team. It’ll make for better publicity.”

Clint snorted.  Yes, the notorious assassin being against public registration.  Shocking.

“If Cap thinks it’ll help-” Clint began, only to have Steve cut him off.

“It’s just Steve, after tomorrow.  Captain America is retiring, remember?”  The smile he gave Clint was small and bittersweet, and Clint felt vaguely guilty all over again.  This wasn’t his fault - wasn’t even remotely his responsibility - but it was clear Steve was unhappy with the decisions he was being forced to make.  Clint sighed.

“Alright Steve, if you think I should be there, I’ll come.”

Steve nodded, once, quick and decisive, then cleared his throat.  “Peggy, ah-” he cleared his throat again, swallowed hard, and Natasha reached out, laying a hand lightly on his forearm.  “Peggy’s funeral is Wednesday. I know you can’t go,” he turned pleading eyes to Bucky, “because the security’ll be a nightmare, but, ah.  They’ve um- Peggy wanted me to be a pallbearer and-” He stopped, seemingly unable to continue.

Bucky’s face softened.  “I’ll stay here as long as you need, Stevie.  Ain’t got nowhere to be, you dumb punk. I’ll be here when you’re- when you get back.”

*

They held the press conference first thing in the morning.  Sam Wilson spoke, which, Clint figured, was the best thing for all parties.  Steve was passionately angry, and grieving, and a whole slew of emotions that didn’t lend themselves to successful press talks.  Clint was sure as _fuck_ not going to speak, and Wanda couldn’t exactly expect a warm reception.  So Sam spoke, while Steve, Natasha, Clint, and Wanda hovered in the background.  Tony and Rhodey were noticeably absent, which was sure to fire up speculation, but they’d chosen to ignore that.  Tony and Rhodey hadn’t signed the Accords as Avengers, they’d signed them as private citizens, so for all intents and purposes, this press conference was the death knell for the team.

Every one of them wore civilan clothes.  Nice ones, not quite suits, but slacks and shirts and nothing that looked like a superhero costume or a tactical uniform.  Natasha had apparently broken out the Natalie Rushman wardrobe. Bucky had dressed Clint, in slacks and a button-up shirt, though Clint had rolled the sleeves up and hidden behind his usual wrap-around sunglasses under the bright June sun.  Steve wore his usual khakis. None of them looked much like superheros, or even like the kind of people who’d be government agents.

Sam spoke eloquently, quoted Martin Luther King Jr. and Martin Niemöller, compared the registration requirements to Nazi Germany, and generally denounced the entire Accords in cool, reasonable tones.  

The press went _nuts_.  

Despite that it was a statement and not a question and answer session, the attending reporters shouted questions from the back, most of which went largely ignored.  The questions about what Clint and Natasha would be doing were answered by Maria Hill, who’d come out of the woodwork in a strange show of support.

“Agents Barton and Romanov will continue to work for federal investigative agencies in a consultant manner, but they will no longer function as part of the Avengers, nor will they continue to carry the monikers ‘Hawkeye’ and ‘Black Widow’.”

And that was it, the end of an era for Clint.  It felt hollow.

“Captain Rogers! Captain Rogers!  What about your responsibility to the American people?”

Steve’s jaw ticked as he ground his teeth, before he took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself.  “The American government and the governments of the United Nations have made it clear what their stance on my responsibility is.  Unfortunately, I cannot, in good conscience, support legislation that so strongly reminds me of the very reason I signed up to fight in World War II.”  He paused, and his smile was more like a grimace. “Call me the next time there’s an alien invasion, I guess.”

Clint couldn’t hold back the little smirk of amusement at that, even though it was off script and sure to get Steve yelled at.

General Ross was _livid_ , and, unsurprisingly, public support for the Accords took a nosedive, once the Avengers collectively retired.

Then came Peggy Carter’s funeral, Steve shouldering the burden of not just her casket, but the gaping wound of a life that might have been, a love lost.  Natasha attended, because she didn’t want Steve to be alone, and Steve came back to the tower grief-stricken and pale. He sat on Clint’s couch with Bucky, mired in his own misery and grief, while Natasha ran her fingers through his hair and they watched mindless documentaries and pointedly ignored the news.

It seemed, for a brief, shining moment, that thing were going to be - if not ok, then at least manageable.  Something they could move forward from, forge some kind of new purpose. Natasha was there with Steve, obvious in her affection in a way that only those close to her would be able to tell.  Bucky was back, Steve’s best friend returned from the dead, and Clint was, well, Clint. He was there, anyway, and being as supportive as he knew how.

So of course it all went to shit the next day, when someone posing as the Winter Soldier bombed the Accords signing in Vienna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t find any official numbers for Clint, Bucky, or Natasha’s assassination records. Let’s just say Clint is taking personal responsibility for everyone he killed for Loki, regardless of whether that’s actually his fault. The only numbers we every get for Bucky are from the Winter Soldier movie and it’s just that he’s “credited with over two dozen assassinations”. So. Here we are.
> 
> It’s fanfiction, I do what I want.


	13. Bad Moon Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter King T'Challa, and a whole lotta drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, yeah, the chapter count went up AGAIN, because I split this chapter in half once it got unwieldy. 
> 
> **Trigger warnings for descriptions of canon-typical torture.** It's not graphic, but it hits you in the feels.

Tony and Rhodey had been gone for less than twenty four hours when Clint got the call.

 

He and Bucky were back in his Bed-Stuy apartment, curled up on Clint’s beat up old sofa watching _Pretty Woman_ and arguing about it when the phone rang.

 

“Why’re we watchin’ this anyway?” Bucky asked, squinting at the television.  Julia Roberts’ character was currently chastising the snooty sales lady about her decision to not accept her business.

 

“Because it doesn’t matter if we miss half the plot,” Clint reminded him, pulling him in for a long, thorough kiss, even as he fumbled for the ringing cellphone on the coffee table.

 

“Good point,” Bucky answered, sliding a hand underneath Clint’s shirt.

 

Clint held the phone to his ear even as Bucky dragged his mouth - and stubble - across Clint’s jaw and down his throat.  HIs hand started drifting up towards Clint’s chest.

 

“Hello,” Clint panted into the phone, unbothered by his breathlessness.

 

“Agent Barton.”  The clipped, no-nonsense voice of Maria Hill came across the line, clear as a bell.

 

“Ma’am,” Clint answered, unsure of what he was supposed to call her now.  S.H.I.E.L.D no longer existed, so she wasn’t the Assistant Director, or even the Director, and he wasn’t entirely clear on what her role even was.

 

Bucky, obviously able to overhear the conversation, retreated to lean against the arm of the couch, looking irritable.  

 

“I need you to come in.  Your… expertise is required.”

 

Clint blinked at that.  “You’re aware I retired, right Hill?”

 

She scoffed.  “You retired from the Avengers.  As far as I’m aware, you’re still a government agent, is that not correct?”

 

And the rub of it was, she was right.  They’d even announced it at that godforsaken press conference.

 

Before he could answer, she steamrolled over him.  “I wouldn’t have called if it weren’t crucial, Barton.” There was a brief pause.  “Romanov is on her way as we speak.”

 

Clint blew out a short, sharp breath.  If Hill needed both of them, then some shit was coming down. His eyes flicked to Bucky, who was now looking more concerned than annoyed.

 

“What about-”

 

“Leave your boyfriend at home,” Hill cut him off.  “Come in for the brief, you can fill him in afterwards.”  

 

“Now?” Clint asked.

 

“As soon as you can get to the Tower,” Hill said, and hung up the phone.

 

Clint lowered his cellphone to look at it in disbelief.  “Seriously?” he asked no one.

 

Bucky snorted.  “Better go see what it’s all about.  Stark probably got himself into trouble.”

 

*

 

Bucky’s prediction was accurate, as it turned out.  Tony had been successful only in mortally offending the newest monarch of a small, nearly unheard of African country called Wakanda.  Unfortunately, the previous monarch had been one of the casualties of the Vienna bombing, and he was publicly calling for the Winter Soldier’s head on a platter.

 

“You want us to what now?” Clint asked, rocking onto the back legs of the chair he’d been sitting in for the last half hour. Natasha kicked the chair, and Clint was only barely able to prevent it from being toppled over by hooking his ankle under the leg of her chair.  Taking the hint, he dropped back onto all four legs and gave her a sour look.

 

The look she gave him back meant he ought to be taking this briefing a bit more seriously.

 

Still, it was hard.

 

“Officially, you’ll be going to Vienna as agents of the United States government - specifically, the CIA, since that’s who you’re currently attached to - and as resident experts on the Winter Soldier’s habits, behaviors, and previous… activities.”

 

In any other scenario, Clint would find this _hilarious_.

 

Under the current circumstances-

 

“That doesn’t seem a bit disingenuous to you?” Clint said, instead of laughing in her face.

 

Hill rolled her eyes.

 

“You _are_ the experts.  Additionally, it’s become increasingly clear that Stark needs a handler, and Colonel Rhodes isn’t up to the task.  Officially, you’re there as additional support and information. Unofficially, try not to prevent this from blowing up in our faces.”  She grimaced. “If you could persuade King T’Challa _not_ to start an international manhunt, that would be ideal.”

 

And honestly, Clint thought, goals.

 

“When do we leave?” he sighed.

 

“You’re wheels up in three hours,” Hill answered, passing over a file.  “That’s the most current information we have on the Vienna bombing, including local law enforcement speculation and a data drive of various security footage.  I suggest you familiarize yourself with it before you land in Vienna.”

 

Once Hill was gone, Clint turned to Natasha, wide-eyed and pleading.  She rolled her eyes.

 

“You’ve got two hours to be back here,” she cautioned him, recognizing a lost cause when she saw one.  

 

And that- that was barely enough time to go back to the apartment and grab a go-bag, much less to say a proper goodbye to Bucky, but Clint would have to make due.

 

*

 

“I’ll go back to the tower with you,” Bucky offered, once Clint filled him in.  “I can stay and keep Steve from doing somethin’ stupid until you get back.”

 

Clint snorted, and Bucky laughed.  “Well, I can try,” he amended, easing up behind Clint where he was haphazardly throwing things into his duffle.  He could get all the weapons he needed at the tower, but there was something to be said for having his own, more familiar gear.  His throwing knives, two sidearms he was partial to, and his-

 

He hesitated, his hand hovering over his fletching kit, before opting to leave it where he was.

 

Clint wasn’t Hawkeye, anymore, after all.  

 

Bucky wrapped his arms around Clint’s waist.  “‘S gonna be fine,” he murmured against Clint’s neck. “You’re just covering Stark’s ass, not actually going after the Winter Soldier.  I’m staying here.”

 

Clint tried to find the humor in that statement and failed miserably.

 

“I’d rather _stay_ here,” he muttered, leaning into the embrace.  “Or we could go back to the cabin - it’s not like they know where you’re at.”

 

“You’re the one that said I couldn’t spend my whole life in hiding,” Bucky reminded him.  

 

And that-  that was fair, and true, and Clint hated that past-Clint was right and that Bucky agreed with him.  He heaved a sigh that felt like he’d dragged it from his very bones. Bucky turned him around, detangling Clint’s hands from the duffle’s straps and guiding them around his waist instead.  He leaned up to kiss Clint as thoroughly as possible, his mouth moving slowly in a dance that was now familiar, but that Clint couldn’t stop himself craving. Clint pressed into the contact, fitting their bodies together and wishing he hadn’t already strapped on Kevlar and tac pants in anticipation of the flight.

 

“No time for a quickie before I go?” Clint asked, teasing and serious at the same time.

 

Bucky laughed against his mouth.  “We can have all the quickies you want when you get back.”  He kissed Clint again, less intense but just as sincere, easing off into small pecks until they were just breathing into one another’s space.  “Let’s go, you’re gonna be late, and Natasha’ll prob’ly stab you herself.”

 

“True,” Clint agreed, stepping back and hoisting his bag over his shoulder.  Bucky grabbed his own seabag, still mostly-packed from their trip from Tennessee, and whistled for Lucky, who trotted up as joyfully as ever.  “Take care of my guy,” Clint said, squatting down to ruffle Lucky’s fur. “I kinda love him.”

 

Clint wasn’t sure if the words were directed for or at the animal.

 

Bucky watched him with dark, knowing eyes and a gaze that made Clint think he understood what wasn’t being said.

 

It was the only goodbye Clint was capable of, and really, the only one they had time for.  As soon as they arrived at the tower, FRIDAY informed them that Natasha was waiting impatiently on the roof, the Quinjet fueled up and ready to go.  Bucky didn’t follow Clint up, instead stopping off on Steve’s floor with a rib-crushing hug and no words as Clint stayed behind on the elevator to the top of the building. Maria and half a dozen agents and attachés were crowded around, their faces serious and concerned

 

On the jet, Natasha let Clint take his usual place in the pilot’s chair, his hands flying over familiar controls as though he’d never left, his motions sure and automatic.  The Quinjet could make the normally eight hour flight to Vienna in four, and Clint intended to take full advantage. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could come back.

 

Or so he thought, until he was ushered into the suite of rooms T’Challa and his entourage were using as a base, and Clint found himself immediately drawn into the very argument he never wanted to have.

 

T’Challa was obsessively reviewing the same security footage Natasha had forced Clint to watch on the plane, speculating wildly about who had sent the apparent Winter Soldier and why, if it were simply a sabotage of the Accords - which was now experiencing an unsurprising upswing in the public opinion polls - or if his father, or someone else, had been the intended target.  Clint mostly kept silent, knowing he’d be more likely to give something away if he spoke than if he held his tongue, and felt his temper creeping up his spine with every passing moment.

 

“It’s not Barnes,” Natasha said, for the fourth time in less than an hour.  “For one thing, bombings aren’t his skill set. He’s a sniper, and a hand to hand combat expert, but there are no bombings attributed to him in any of the known or presumed assassinations in his file.”

 

“He blew your Director Fury up with a rocket launcher,” T’Challa said, angry and indignant.  “What do you call that?”

 

“It’s still a projectile _weapon_ ,” Natasha emphasized.  “It’s not a planted explosive device.  It’s still shooting.”

 

Clint ground his jaw.

 

“And look at this,” she added, rewinding and slowing the recording down, watching as the footage of the bomber played in various angles from patched-together security footage.  “Compared to the DC attack footage, the movement is all wrong. Barnes moves like a tank, whoever this is stumbles around like a toddler by comparison.”

 

“You expect me to believe,” T’Challa ground out, clearly reaching the limit of his patience, “that based on some arbitrary judgement of _how he moves_ and his sketchy assassination record, that this isn’t Barnes?  I don’t need your help - I’ll kill him myself.”

 

Clint opened his mouth, but was immediately cut off by Tony, who looked weary and annoyed.

 

“It’s not Barnes,” Tony reiterated, “because Barnes has been in Avengers’ custody for the last several months.  We’re able to account for his exact whereabouts at the time of the bombing.”

 

Natasha’s only reaction to Tony blowing everything up in their faces was to purse her lips and close her eyes for a brief second.  It was all Clint could do not to facepalm.

 

T’Challa and his bodyguard, a tall, athletic woman with a shaved head and a deadly countenance, whirled on Tony as though he’d spoken blasphemy.  

 

“You have the world’s most notorious assassin in custody, and you didn’t think to inform the world’s governments?  He’s on the most wanted list in at least fifty-two member nations, and he murdered my father!”

 

“No,” Tony said.  “He killed _my_ father.  He didn’t kill yours.”

 

Clint made a pained noise.

 

“Is he being _punished_ for his transgressions?” T’Challa demanded.  “Is he suffering for the lives he has taken, for the ones he has left in ruins?”

 

Tony’s jaw worked, and Clint-

 

Clint was torn between waiting to see what Tony said and praying he kept his big fucking mouth shut.  He wasn’t sure which he wanted more.

 

They were interrupted by the sounds of guttural German and the static of an old recording.  Clint understood enough of it to gather that it was recording number one hundred and twenty seven of _Soldat_ , and something about testing.  

 

Then it was nothing but the shrill, agonized screams of a man well past the limits of his tolerance.

 

On the same large television where they’d been previously relentlessly rewatching the security footage of the Vienna bombing, there was now grainy footage of a highly-secured HYDRA lab, with Bucky at the center of the camera angle.

 

Clint thought he was legitimately going to be sick, and he’d been on both the giving and receiving ends of torture.  He stared at the screen long enough to see Bucky - the Winter Soldier - strapped to a table, surrounded by white coats with instruments, and then he had to swallow hard and look away.

 

The screaming continued.

 

Occasionally it was in English, pleading, or German, or Russian, and by the end of the clip it was just raw and broken.  

 

The recording ended, and Clint swallowed down his bile and took a breath.

 

Then another recording started, this time in Russian.  Another test. Another experiment. Bucky screaming his name and his serial number in English, and then quiet, broken sobbing.

 

Another recording, this time of Bucky strapped into a chair and having his mind wiped with one of the godforsaken chairs, screaming again.

 

Always screaming.

 

And Clint knew, Clint knew better than most, probably, what Bucky had gone through.  He’d read the abridged file. Bucky had talked, haltingly, about what it had been like to be Hydra’s prisoner and then their puppet, and Clint had woken to him gasping for air and biting back screams, and he’d seen Bucky run for a bucket when something triggered a flashback or a movie hit a little too close to home.

 

But to know it intellectually and to see it - to feel it on an instinctual level - to watch the man he was only just admitting to himself that he was in love with, be tortured into compliance, until he was a shell of a person and not even human in the eyes of his captors was-

 

Well, Clint couldn’t call it torture, because he was _witnessing_ torture, but it was abominable.

 

“Stop,” a broken voice croaked, and it was a few seconds before Clint recognized the word had come out of his own mouth.  “Shut it off.”

 

Natasha shot him an apologetic look, and turned the recording off.

 

Even T’Challa’s super scary bodyguard looked rattled, and the man himself had sunk into a chair.  Clint could see the slight tremble in his hands.

 

Tony looked horrified, and Clint wondered if this was the first time he’d delved into what, exactly, had happened during Bucky’s imprisonment.

 

“Bucky Barnes is the United States’ longest-serving prisoner of war,” Natasha said, calm and straightforward as always, staring T’Challa directly in the eye.  “He has endured the unimaginable. There are hundreds of hours of footage just like this, spanning the course of nearly seventy years. He has been in custody, recuperating and recovering, for the last several months.  He didn’t bomb the signing, and he’s not responsible for your father’s death.”

 

“He is-” T’Challa paused.  “He is… stable?” He asked, cautiously.  “That a man should suffer such horrors, I would expect him to be damaged.”

 

She nodded, solemnly.

 

Clint blinked back tears that he refused to acknowledge.  Bucky _was_ damaged, in the same sort of way that Clint was damaged, but he was far more recovered than Clint sometimes felt like he could ever be.

 

“I will keep your confidence,” T’Challa said, carefully, and his bodyguard gave him a look that Clint recognized from long experience as _you’re being an idiot_ , but she kept her silence.  “But,” he added, “I want proof that Barnes is not a danger to the world.  That he is making progress in his recovery.”

 

“What kind of proof would you accept?” Tony asked, and Clint could see his mind was already racing ahead.

 

“I want to speak with him,” T’Challa answered, after a long moment of thought.

 

“No,” Clint answered, before anyone else could.  “Traveling here is out of the question. It’s a matter of safety and security.  For him,” he added. “Not for you. You’re safe from him, but I’m not convinced he’s safe from you.”

 

T’Challa turned a far-too-knowing gaze on Clint, and Clint wished he’d kept his mouth shut.  After a moment he nodded at Clint, slow and regal and, it almost seemed to Clint, respectful.  

 

“I’ll settle for a secure video conference,” the king capitulated, eyes still on Clint.

 

“That’s easy enough,” Tony said, waving his hand.  “I can set up a-”

 

“No need,” scary bodyguard lady said, and Clint jumped to hear her voice, deep and throaty.  “We are more than capable.” She pulled out a nondescript briefcase and set it on the table, flipping it open.  Inside was technology that even Tony found impressive, judging by the look on his face. “We just need a phone number to contact.”

 

Clint blinked.

 

He didn’t want to give these people Bucky’s personal number, burner though it might have been, but he had no way of knowing where Bucky even was-

 

“FRIDAY,” Tony said, speaking into his wrist gauntlet.  “Please locate Sergeant Barnes.”

 

“Sergeant Barnes is currently on the one hundred and third floor, in the common area.”  FRIDAY's smooth, dulcet tones emanated from the wrist cuff.

 

The- Clint was flabbergasted.  The one hundred and third floor was _his_ floor, his personal quarters in the tower and Bucky was just hanging out there, instead of with Steve and-  Clint’s thoughts ground to a strange halt over that bit of knowledge.

 

“Thanks, beautiful.”

 

“My pleasure, Sir.  Will there be anything else?”

 

Tony side-eyed T’Challa and his bodyguard and then gave a lazy shrug.  “Please anticipate a phone call from King T’Challa momentarily, and ensure that it’s routed directly to Sergeant Barnes.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

Tony rattled off the main number to the tower, and T’Challa leaned over to enter it into the numeric keypad inside the briefcase, waiting for the brief moments it took for the line to ring and FRIDAY to inform them they were being re-routed.  

 

Clint edged closer to the king and his bodyguard, though for what reason he couldn’t say.

 

Within a few seconds, Bucky’s voice came over the line with a tentative “Hello?”

 

The entire hotel suite blossomed into a full-color, three dimensional hologram that showed Clint all the familiar trappings of his own living quarters - the couch, the coffee table, and Bucky, wrapped in his knitted blanket with Lucky snuggled up next to him.

 

“What the fuck?” Bucky said, jerking in startlement.

 

Clint gave a little half-wave, assuming from his reaction that Bucky could see them in return.

 

 _Are you ok?_ Bucky signed, quick and short-hand, and Clint flashed him a thumbs up.  Some of the tension went out of Bucky’s shoulders at the reassurance.

 

For a few moments, the room was silent, as Bucky took in the bizarre circumstances and T’Challa seemed content to observe Bucky in Clint’s space, looking - except for the shining metal arm - as unthreatening and harmless as possible, tucked into an old blanket with a dog on his lap.

 

“Sergeant Barnes,” T’Challa said, finally.  “I have only recently become aware of your suffering, and I am deeply sorry for what you have endured.”

 

Bucky pursed his lips, his eyes darting between Clint, T’Challa, and the bodyguard.  Natasha shifted, moving to stand just behind Clint’s shoulder, a subtle show of support.  He gave a short, jerky nod, his hands clenched in the folds of the blanket.

 

“You and my father are both victims.  If there is anything I can do to help you find peace - Wakanda is at your service.”

 

The bodyguard, Natasha, and Tony all turned to stare at T’Challa.  Clint, on the other hand, only had eyes for Bucky. For the soft, exposed look on his face, the mixture of gratitude and shame, mostly overshadowed by overwhelming surprise.

 

“Thank-”  Bucky cleared his throat, his voice rough and gravely.  “Thank you. I- I appreciate it.”

 

“Why would someone impersonate you at a bombing?” the bodyguard asked into the ensuing, awkward silence.

 

Bucky shrugged.  “I’m an easy target,” he said.  “A distraction, maybe? I’m not sure.”

 

There was a round of nods before T’Challa had another question.

 

“Do you know who might be capable of impersonating the Winter Soldier?”

 

A dark, unreadable look crossed over Bucky’s face.  “There were other Soldiers,” he said, and Clint felt a deep chill of foreboding crawling up his spine.

 

“What?” Natasha said, and even she looked horrified.  

 

Bucky grimaced.  “In-” he hesitated, his eyes flicking to Tony and then back to T’Challa. “In ‘91 I had a mission to retrieve a working super soldier serum.  I was- I got the serum and delivered it to Hydra. They wanted to replace me - wanted Soldiers that were more… amenable to Hydra orders, didn’t require wiping to be obedient.”  He took a deep, shuddering breath. “They took five volunteers - they were already well trained. Their most elite death squad. More kills than anyone in HYDRA history. And that was before the serum.”

 

“Were they all like you?” Tony asked.

 

“Worse,” Bucky answered. “They spoke thirty languages, could hide in plain sight. Infiltrate, assassinate, destabilize. They could take a whole country down in one night, and you'd never see them coming."

 

“What happened to them?” Natasha asked, stepping closer, her face a cloud of concern.

 

Bucky shrugged.  “They were decommissioned shortly after they received the serum.  It made them feral, unpredictable. The serum amplifies qualities that already exist - like Steve.  Loyalty, goodness, tactical ability. When you give a group of merciless killers the serum, you get psychopaths.  HYDRA lost control of them, had to put them into cryostasis. The program was deemed a failure.”

 

“They were Nazi assholes who volunteered to be bigger, badder Nazi assholes.  Can’t believe that didn’t work out for HYDRA,” Clint muttered, and Bucky huffed something that was almost a laugh.

 

“Where are they now?” T’Challa’s bodyguard asked, ignoring Clint entirely.

 

Shrugging again, Bucky held his hands up in a universal ‘who knows’ gesture.  “The original program was based in Siberia, but I was never there after the original… training.  They could be anywhere by now. They may even be dead, I don’t know. I never saw any of them after that.”

 

“You know the base coordinates?” Tony asked, already pulling up his own holographic maps.

 

Bucky rattled off a series of latitude-longitude coordinates that Tony input into his system and then overlaid with satellite imagery.

 

“There’s definitely something there,” Tony muttered, zooming in and looking at different angles.  “I can’t tell if it’s been in use recently, though.”

 

“It is a start,” T’Challa intoned, looking grim.  “Thank you for your assistance, Sergeant.”

 

“Just Bucky,” Bucky said, giving a tight smile.  “Not a sergeant anymore.”

 

T’Challa cocked his head at Bucky curiously.  “As you say, Bucky.”

 

“Hope you packed your snowsuits, kids,” Tony said, looking suddenly gleeful.  “I think I found our secret Nazi super soldier hiding base!”

 

 _Be careful_ , Bucky signed urgently at Clint.   _Dangerous.  Don’t get killed._

 

 _I promise,_ Clint signed in return.  

 

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his fists three times, in a gesture Clint understood to mean he cared.  Before he could respond with anything of his own - though he had no _idea_ what that might even be - Bucky signed off the call.

 


	14. A View To Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siberia still sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was a bit late - action scenes are my kryptonite, and I wanted to wait to see if I survived the Tumblr purge.
> 
> I did! So here, have a new chapter!
> 
> **TW: Canon Typical Violence (a little bit of stabbing happens. and some shooting. and a joint dislocation.)**

Clint fumbled for his phone as it vibrated insistently from the nightstand next to his lonely and, frankly, uncomfortable hotel bed.  It was late - after midnight late, at least, though he wasn’t sure of the exact time - but he wasn’t sleeping. Hadn’t, in fact, slept well any of the last three nights they’d sat in Vienna and debated and planned and discussed the Siberian base situation.  He’d been lying in bed for what felt like hours already, staring into the darkness and wishing he was back in New York or, better yet, back in his nice, secluded cabin. 

 

Things had played out  _ exactly _ as Steve had predicted.  Tony took the information about the Winter Soldier program back to the United Nations Panel of Intergovernmental Security, which was now overseeing what was left of the Avengers, explained that there might be valuable intel if not more supersoldier assassins using the base, and they’d spent the last three days arguing over the merits of investigating the base, debating whether it really warranted investigation and if so, whether it really required Iron Man and company - since they weren’t calling it the Avengers anymore - with half the members refusing to authorize a mission and the other half insisting on investigation but demanding their own national security agencies be involved. 

 

At least three panel members had  _ suggested _ that Captain America be called in, since it was a supersoldier problem, and Natasha had forcefully reminded them that  _ Steve Rogers _ had retired, as per the Accords agreement, much to their frustration.

 

It was an unmitigated, exhausting disaster, and Clint was already entirely done with it. 

 

So the phone call was either a call to mission or a final refusal, Clint figured, and it was probably important enough to be worth answering. 

 

To his surprise, it was a secure video call, and Clint sat up enough to flick on the lamp as he hit accept. 

 

Instead, Bucky’s face materialized on the screen, and Clint couldn’t help but smile. 

 

God, he had it bad. 

 

“Hey handsome,” Clint said, before he registered the frustrated, irritated look on Bucky’s face.  “Hey.” he said again. “What happened? You look stressed.”

 

Bucky heaved a sigh, and ran an agitated hand through his already-mussed hair.  It was clear that it wasn’t the first time he’d done so, and Clint wondered what had him so worked up.  The hair thing was a nervous habit he didn’t see much unless Bucky was feeling particularly annoyed. 

 

“Steve fuckin’ Rogers is what happened,” Bucky said, his irritation bleeding into his tone.  He looked Clint over, seemed to realize he was lying in bed in a pair of sleep pants and not much else, and his expression softened some.  “Shit, I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”

 

“Nah,” Clint said.  “Couldn’t sleep anyway.  Everything’s a shitshow here.  Keep waiting to hear if we’re stayin’ or goin; the panel members can’t decide, surprise, surprise.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, I heard. Apparently Stark called Steve and tried to guilt trip him about the damn Accords, ‘cos there’s some racket about how y’all need Cap for this.” His brow pinched in frustration. “Steve’s rarin’ up to go over there, but he still won’t sign the paperwork, ‘course, so he got into it with Stark, and now he’s makin’ noise about going to the base instead of waitin’ on the panel to, quote, get their heads outta their asses.”

 

Clint snorted.  “Yeah, that’d go over real well, Captain Vigilante jumping international borders to go take on five supersoldiers alone while the U.N. security panel bickers.  That won’t end in disaster at all.”

 

“Yeah, I finally read through the whole Accords in my free time.  It ends with a supermax prison in the middle of the goddamn ocean.  No thanks.” He grimaced, looking nauseated at the very idea. “He tried to convince me to go, too,” Bucky added, like a confession.

 

Blinking in surprise, Clint could only stare for a moment.  “Did you- is that something you wanna do?”

 

“No!” Bucky said, quickly.  “No- I. No. I mean, I’d-” he huffed in frustration.  “I’d go to watch your back,” he offered, quietly. “But I’m not gonna sneak across the border to do it, and anyway, I don’t think Steve and I would be enough firepower if they’re all still there. Not by ourselves.”

 

That sounded ominous.

 

“Whaddaya mean?” Clint asked.  

 

Bucky siged, again.  “I trained the other Soldiers,” Bucky said, after a moment.  “Well, kind of. They wanted to… test their little creations.  Brought me in to go a few rounds. I got my ass handed to me, to start with.  After they got outta control, Kaparov ordered me to get him out, and I did alright with that.  Made it out alive, managed to get the Soldiers contained. But in an all out brawl- they’re just as strong, just as fast as me.  Maybe not quite as heavy-hitting as Steve, but it’d be close. Just the two of us against five of them? I dunno, I’m not sure how that’d go.  It’s a damn dumb idea.”

 

Clint let that sink in, the idea that there were five Steves,  _ five Buckys _ , but vicious, and out of control.  Jesus Christ. 

 

“Steve only has one reaction,” Bucky continued.  “He’s not fight or flight, he’s just fight. Spent half my teenage years pullin’ him outta one brawl or another.  And he’s hurtin’ from Peggy, so he’s itchin’ for a fight. Makin’ me antsy. I’m tired of fightin’.” He sighed. “I’m worried about you,” he added, almost cautiously.  “I know you can hold your own, but this is… well, this is somethin’ else.”

 

“I’ll be careful,” Clint said, automatically.  “Still waitin’ on the panel, but I think T’Challa’s gonna pull rank soon.  But we’re all gonna go. It’ll be at least six of us, and Tony and Rhodey have their suits.  T’Challa’s got something up his sleeve, too, I think, and that bodyguard of his is terrifying.  She makes Natasha look  _ soft _ .”

 

That got the laugh Clint was hoping for, making Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners.  He wasn’t sure if Bucky had called to talk shop or just to talk, but it was good to hear from him all the same.  

 

“I’ll take any tips you’ve got, though,” Clint said.  

 

“I’ll give you a tip,” Bucky said, and he waggled his eyebrows ridiculously, which Clint took to mean it was time for a subject change, but then Bucky continued, more soberly.  “Don’t let ‘em grab you,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Do your thing - stay out of range, shoot to kill. I dunno what they’d be like now, but when I fought them they were fast and brutal, but not innovative.  Heavy hitters, not tactically-minded. Almost mindlessly violent. That was one of Kaparov’s complaints, before they snapped. Be unpredictable.”

 

Clint nodded, filing the information away, then grinned.

 

“So tell me more about the tip you wanna give me.”  

 

This time Bucky laughed.  “Oh no, I’m not doin’ this.  I don’t care how secure FRIDAY says this channel is.  I don’t trust Stark not to record my outgoing calls. You can have more than just the tip when you come back, safe and sound.”

 

Clint felt his face do something funny - something soft and maybe wistful - and Bucky’s face changed in response.  It lost the humorous tilt, looking more fond than anything.

 

“I dunno how much more of Steve ‘Fight Me’ Rogers I can take, Barton.  You better come back soon, I miss your stupid face.”

 

Frozen in surprise, Clint stared at Bucky on the small screen for a handful of heartbeats, watching as the warm expression started to shutter, and he stumbled through a panicked response.  “Yeah I- I miss your dumb face too, Barnes. Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the smile was back.  “How can I? Steve’s cornered the market.”

 

*

 

Two days later the security panel finally, finally authorized the mission as a ‘joint task force’ operation, with the caveat that a handful of other operatives from representative countries would join them, including operatives from the United Kingdom, Sokovia, and Russia.  They didn’t get a lot of warning, just a vague go time and obviously-sanitized files on their team additions. 

 

Natasha reviewed them, looking more and more annoyed the further she got. 

 

“Want me to have FRIDAY hack the databases?” Tony offered, after he watched her toss all 3 files in a pile in frustration.  “It’ll take, like, five minutes, tops.”

 

She looked thoughtful for a moment, before shaking her head.  “There’s a rundown of the capabilities in the folders, it’s enough to plan from.  I don’t think I care about the rest. It’s not like they’re permanent additions.”

 

But they might be, Clint thought, if they kept having to run operations this way.

 

He kept the idea to himself.  That was a future!Clint problem.  Maybe. He wasn’t sure how much of this future he wanted a part of, to be honest.  He’d refused to sign the Accords on purpose, and this just seemed like a convenient way by Maria Hill to circumvent that. 

 

Natasha slid the files to Clint so he could flick through them. 

 

_ Stewart, Heather.  MI6, 32 years old, extensive experience with explosives, counter-terrorism, and counter-proliferation.  _

 

_ Melnyk, Aleko.  SBU, 30 years old, infiltration and interrogation. _

 

_ Volkov, Natalia, former KGB, current FSB, 45 years old, foreign intelligence, counter-espionage. _

 

Clint snorted.  Someone thought they were funny.  

 

Tony might be the official team lead, but it was Natasha who ran the briefing.  

 

“The Siberian base is an old missile silo,” she said, clicking through a hastily-assembled presentation being projected on the white wall of a basement room in the British Embassy.  It was the closest thing to neutral ground anyone had been able to come up with, given that the majority of the team was from the United States but using the American embassy stirred up all sorts of bad feelings.  “There’s a warehouse structure at ground level, and then we descend here.” She highlighted a narrow elevator shaft on the blueprints FRIDAY had dug up from somewhere Clint had determined not to ask about. “This is the only entrance in or out, barring the launch bay, which we have not determined is or is not operational.”

 

“It’s a bottleneck,” Stewart pointed out.

 

“Yes,” Natasha agreed, but didn’t offer an alternative.  “Have you been briefed on what we’re looking for, or do I need to elaborate?”

 

“Why?” Melnyk leaned forward, “Was there some information withheld from our agencies when we were requested as part of the team?”

 

Volkov said nothing. 

 

Clint leaned back casually in his chair, rocking onto the back legs, and tossed a knife end over end as he stared at the ceiling.  Tony snorted. Rhodey pinched his nose between his fingers and heaved a sigh. 

 

Natasha cocked her head at the Sokovian agent for a moment, looking thoughtful, before she proceeded to ignore than man as though he didn’t exist.  She clicked through to the next slide, which detailed what little information they’d been able to gather about the Winter Soldier program as it pertained to the five soldiers Bucky had told them about.  

 

“We’ve recently been made aware of the possibility of more enhanced Soldiers, with capabilities similar to that of Steve Rogers.  It was a HYDRA-developed program, and we have reason to believe that it originated and was contained at this base. We may encounter all or none of these individuals, and out main objective is to see that the threat is contained.  By any means necessary.”

 

The slideshow went dark.

 

“No pertinent information was withheld,” she added, turning to look at the three agents in turn.  “I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the risk associated with the assignment. We’re wheels up in an hour.”  

 

Natasha turned on her heel and walked smartly out of the room.

 

*

 

T’Challa met them on the landing pad, suited up in some kind of form-fitting black singlet, Okoye at his side in her usual red.  Clint hadn’t expected the king to join them, but Tony didn’t look at all surprised, so he kept his thoughts to himself. If they got another foreign royal killed, it was probably going to fall on all their heads, but hell, he wasn’t in charge here.  

 

Clint investigated the U.S. embassy’s weapons cache and remained unimpressed with their offerings, so he hoped the Quinjet was still outfitted for Hawkeye, because if he had to take subpar weapons with him, he was going to be pissed. The three foreign agents were there before he arrived, already kitted out in standard tac gear and weapons, and Natasha was - once again - suited up in her black catsuit and boots, though missing the Avengers A  _ and _ the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle.  Her Widow’s Bites were already around her wrists and Clint figured, fuck it, if she could dress as the Widow but not call herself by her callsign, Clint could take his bow.

 

Inside the jet, his locker still had all his own gear in it, as fresh and pristine as he had left it nearly a year ago.  Clint frowned at the dark purple and black tac vest and bracers. Before he could force himself to suit up, Okoye appeared at his side with a carefully folded stack of black cloth in her hands. 

 

“My king wishes you to have this.”  

 

Clint blinked at her before accepting the gift.  

 

“Thanks?” he said, unfolding the cloth to find a tactical suit not unlike the one Natasha wore, though the material was strangely stiff.  The right arm was a full sleeve, but the left, at least, was still bare and left room for his bracers. 

 

Okoye rolled her eyes.  “It is his hope that you make it home alive.  The material is… particular to our people.”

 

“Thank you,” Clint said again, aiming for more sincerity.  It was probably rude to refuse a royal gift, right? And anyway, he wasn’t Hawkeye anymore.  The old uniform didn’t feel right. This all-black gear was different, at least. He headed for the small bathroom in the back of the jet, quickly strapping himself into the suit.

 

It was - actually, it was really good.  It fit like it was made to measure and for all the stiffness, he moved well in it.

 

He wished he could call Bucky.  

 

Clint pushed the thought aside.  He’d talked to Bucky as much as he could already, and he definitely wasn’t going to call him on a jet full of intelligence agents from other countries.  He wasn’t  _ that _ stupid.  

 

Back at his locker, Clint pulled out his favorite recurve, the one that doubled as a melee weapon in a pinch, along with half a dozen knives, two sig-sauers, and an HK MP5 that slid nicely underneath his quiver.

 

“Overkill, much?” Tony asked, walking up behind him, already suited out in red and gold.

 

“That’s rich, coming from the guy walking around in a tin can,” Clint said, checking his arrows over carefully.  “I’m trying not to get dead, here.”

 

“Yeah, you’ve got Elsa to go home to, huh?”

 

Clint rolled his eyes.  

 

On the other side of the jet, Rhodey called Tony’s name, clearly trying to divert a confrontation that wasn’t actually happening. 

 

“Be right with you, Honeybear!” Tony called back, not turning.  The three foreign agents watched all of them with undisguised curiosity, and Clint heard Natasha’s bites flick on with the standard buzz of electricity.  She’d done it to divert their attention, Clint knew, because Nat never strapped on the bites until she’d tested them in the first place. 

 

“Look,” Tony said, voice low and pleading in a way Clint had never heard before.  “I’m- I’m not  _ sorry _ ,” Tony emphasized, “but I can be man enough to admit that maybe I jumped the gun a little bit.  I get that you and the Manchurian Candidate have some kind of brainwashed assassin love fest going on, but I was just trying to do the right thing.”

 

Sighing, Clint shut his locker with a clang.  “You can still do the right thing, Tony,” Clint reminded him.  “Mostly it involves not fucking shit up on a regular basis. Give it a try.”  He walked away, moving to his usual perch in the cockpit and checking flight coordinates.  

 

Good thing the trip was gonna be short, because Clint wasn’t sure they were all going to survive a long stint in an enclosed space. 

 

*

 

The Siberian base was exactly as bleak as Clint would have predicted, all gloomy lack of light and sweating concrete and the distant sound of water dripping.  Exactly like every abandoned base he’d ever infiltrated in his career.

 

Except this one made the hair on the back of his neck stand up like electricity. 

 

Stark provided them with light as he took point, Rhodey at the back with Clint just in front of him so he could watch their six, with the others scattered in the middle.  They moved as a group, clearing sections quickly and efficiently, even T’Challa, who had surprised Clint in a multitude of ways over the last hour.

 

First by pulling a cowl over his head that made him look like some kind of cat, and Clint had only  _ just _ restrained himself from making the furry joke that was on the tip of his tongue, and only because of a quelling look from both Natasha and Okoye.  Then he’d slid into place on the team like someone who had clearly had extensive combat training, Okoye at his left, and Clint had just gone with it.  One more fighter could only be good for them, in this instance, though that didn’t stop him from wondering just what the fuck they were getting up to down there in Wakanda. 

 

Nothing and no one accosted them on their way towards the missile silo, there wasn’t even the whisper of a sound of someone else, but the closer they got, the more Clint’s skin crawled.

 

It was a sensation he’d learned, through multiple difficult and painful lessons, not to ignore. 

 

Inside the silo, Tony managed to get the remaining lights working, which revealed a round, apparently abandoned chamber, except for the presence of five glowing orange cryotubes.

 

Empty cryo tubes.

 

Okay, this looked bad. 

 

Clint shot Natasha a look that said  _ oh fuck _ without words, and began scouting for the high ground.

 

“Such a pity,” came a disembodied voice through a speaker on the far side of the room.  Reflexively, Clint nocked and fired an arrow at the sound, watching as it clattered uselessly to the ground, bouncing off the metal wall of a blast chamber. 

 

The speaker made a tsking sound. 

 

“Please.  The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets.”

 

“I’m betting I could beat that,” Tony said in response.

 

“Oh I’m sure you could, Mr. Stark.  Given time.”

 

The way he said it made Clint relatively certain there wasn’t going to be much time to give.  He eased to the side, heading for the furthest cryo chamber as a launching tool for a higher perspective.

 

“I had such high hopes for you Mr. Stark.  And you, Your Majesty,” the speaker added, and stepped into the light behind the glass, finally visible.

 

“And what might those have been?” Tony asked, as Clint slung his bow back over his shoulder and scrambled up the side of the tank.

 

“I am, of course, interested in the Asset,” and now the guy had Clint’s undivided attention.  “But, I am much more interested in watching the Avengers tear themselves apart from within. The Accords have accomplished that marvelously, but I had hoped to see the Captain and what remains of his Sergeant here, where I could… take advantage of his training.”

 

Clint felt bile rising up in his throat.  The man behind the glass waved a red book printed with Cyrillic symbols. 

 

“I had thought that, with the evidence of your parents’ murder, you might find him for me, bring him into custody.  Or that the death of T’Chaka might persuade his son to do it for you. And yet, here you all are.” He gestured at the group of agents and superheroes in front of him.  “No Captain Rogers or  _ Soldat _ in sight.”   He sighed. “I had hoped to draw them out.  But no matter. Some of his ilk are here, damaged though they may be, and when they’re done with you, it will be easy enough to attract the attention of the good captain, to divert suspicion to the Winter Soldier.”

 

Settling into a crouch, with his bow drawn and an arrow nocked, Clint sincerely hoped Tony was scanning for the tensile strength of the goddamn blast room so he could put an arrow between the guy’s eyes. 

 

“And then, like all of you, the Avengers will be no more.”

 

Natasha moved forward, cocking her head to the side, and Clint watched her melt into the persona that always got the information she wanted. 

 

“The Avengers already disbanded,” she reminded the man.  “Forced into retirement.”

 

“I want them  _ dead _ ,” the man said, viciously.  “My family wasn’t allowed to  _ retire _ .”

 

“You’re Sokovian,” Natasha said, watching him, and Clint felt his stomach bottom out.  

 

“I was,” he agreed, and stepped back into the shadows of the bunker.

 

Which was when all hell broke loose. 

 

Five forms slipped into the room, out of the shadows they’d been hidden in, or maybe out of secret branches of the silo, Clint didn’t know, all he knew was that he saw the first one materialize behind Volkov and he fired off an arrow before his brain consciously processed the threat, whipping another one out of his quiver as soon as the first one released. 

 

The man he shot at  _ caught  _ the projectile mid-flight, and  _ that _ was when Clint knew the fight was going to end badly. 

 

Volkov, at least, took the arrow as warning, and ducked out of the grasp of the man who’d crept up on her, and Clint remembered Bucky’s advice - take the high ground, stay out of grabbing range, and be unpredictable.

 

It was the last coherent thought he had that wasn’t pure adrenaline reflex and fight.  He threw his bow around his shoulders and pulled out his guns.

 

_ Catch this motherfucker _ , he thought, and began firing.  

 

It took six body mass shots before the soldier even stumbled, and a headshot to put him down completely.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha and Tony in an all-out brawl with another soldier, a blonde woman.  Okoye and T’Challa seemed to be holding their own against another male soldier, and Rhodey had thrown his lot in with Volkov and Stewart. 

 

Melnyk was down, and Clint didn’t know if he was alive or not but, more pressingly, that left at least one of the five soldiers unaccounted for.  He continued taking the shots he could, avoiding his teammates and was watching for the missing element when the cryotube he was perched on rocked violently.

 

“Oh shit,” he said, and dived into a tuck and roll as the chamber tumbled over behind him.  He whipped around to find the remaining soldier charging at him, moving fast enough that even Clint’s shots weren’t enough to take him out, though he managed at least a couple of hits, judging by the blood flowing.  The wounds, he saw, were healing nearly as quickly as Steve, and that could mean nothing good.

 

And then he was on top of Clint, fists flying, exactly as Bucky had predicted - wild and punishing, mindlessly violent.  Not that the knowledge helped Clint at all. He’d sparred with Natasha and he’d sparred with Steve and he hadn’t ever been shabby in the hand-to-hand combat - had, in fact, taught a few classes at S.H.I.E.L.D. - and absolutely none of that did anything to give him any kind of advantage.  At best, he wasn’t dead.  _ Yet _ .  

 

“I could use a hand over here!” he called, dancing back to avoid a swinging fist, and nearly missing the gleam of a knife as it swung at his side.  He twisted, aiming to take it against his flank where it would hopefully cause the least amount of damage, and to his surprise, the blade glided off whatever the suit was made out of.  

 

The distraction cost him, though, and the soldier got ahold of his left arm, giving a sharp and powerful twist that forced a scream from his throat and left his arm dangling uselessly at his side.  

 

Dislocated shoulder.

 

The soldier paused, just for a second, almost gloating, looking pleased and blood-thirsty, and Clint used the distraction to kick himself off the ground and up the man’s bent knee, ignoring the pulling, ground-glass sensation in his shoulder with gritted teeth as he launched himself.  He ended with his thighs wrapped around the soldier’s neck, and Clint twisted with all his momentum and dead weight until he felt bones crunch beneath his legs. Both of them toppled to the ground, Clint so painfully that white sparks danced behind his eyes, and the soldier - hopefully - dead. 

 

Clint stumbled to his feet and emptied the entire magazine into the guy’s head, just to be sure. 

 

He dropped the gun and yanked the MP5 from underneath his now-useless quiver.  Clint raised the weapon and surveyed the room. Natasha and Tony’s soldier was also down, his chest a shriveled, burned mass that meant Tony’s repulsors had scored a direct hit.  Okoye had pinned their opponent to the ground with a goddamn  _ spear _ , and he was squirming like a bug on a stick, but unable to free himself.  Volkov was on the ground, back against a wall with her hand pressed to her abdomen where Clint was certain she was bleeding,  Stewart fired her weapon, kneecapping the last soldier, leaving Rhodey free to snap his neck much the same way Clint had killed his own opponent.

 

Clint went far enough to tuck the gun underneath his immobile arm, still in easy grabbing range, and forced himself to walk towards Natasha, who looked pale under her red, red hair.  

 

“I got two-” he started to say, just as her knees crumpled.  He grabbed her, ignoring the excruciating pain of his left shoulder and did his best to control her descent as they both went down hard.  

 

She was, he found, bleeding profusely from a knife wound to her upper left abdomen that Clint hoped like hell didn’t contain any vital organs.

 

“Tony!” Clint shouted, yelling over the sound of his repulsors being used to test just how blast proof the silo door really was.  “I need an air evac  _ now _ .”

 

“I’ve got her, Hawkeye.”  Clint looked up to see Rhodey standing over him, faceplate up and serious look on his face.  “We can go through the launch roof.”

 

“We don’t know if it opens,” Clint argued, but let Rhodey take Natasha.  

 

“Oh, it’ll open,” Rhodey said grimly, and then his faceplate slammed shut and he rocketed upwards, blasting his way through the ceiling as he went.  

 

Clint slumped to the floor, his arm dangling with firey pain, and tried to breathe.  There were first aid supplies on the jet, he knew, and it was enough - it would have to be enough - to get them back to Vienna. 

 

“Got you, you little bastard.”  Clint heard Tony say it, looked up in time to see him dragging a struggling madman out of the now-melted blast doors.  

 

It was going to be fine.

 

It  _ was _ .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clears throat*
> 
> You
> 
> may have noticed
> 
> that there's another chapter
> 
> because I am a cruel and heartless author who split this chapter in half because it was nearly 10k words, so here, have a cliffhanger!
> 
> But I swear there's a happy ending coming!


	15. Stay (I Missed You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint’s back in New York. The problem is, Bucky’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thanks to everyone who stuck through for the end of this story, and thank you for all the kudos, comments, and encouragement along the way. This has been a truly wonderful experience, sharing this fic with the Winterhawk community, and I’ve been overwhelmed with the response. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. 
> 
> This is the last chapter of the narrative arc. 
> 
> You’ve made it! 
> 
> There’s one more chapter coming (ha! A pun!) but it’s purely self-indulgent smut and fluff. All the plot points are resolved here. So if smut isn’t your thing, you don’t need to worry about the next chapter. 
> 
> If it is, well, do I have a Christmas present planned for you!

Clint was despondent.  Clint was melancholy. Mournful.  Sorrowful. Sad.

 

Clint was fairly sure the word he actually was, was heartbroken. 

 

Bucky was gone.

 

Bucky was gone and Clint couldn’t even  _ leave _ to go lick his wounds in peace.  Because Clint’s left arm was still strapped tightly to his chest and, more importantly - because Clint had ignored far worse injuries for far less reason - Natasha was in medical being carefully watched sans her spleen. 

 

Following the ill-fated mission to Siberia, what was left of the team - minus Melnyk, who’d never gotten back up off the ground - had flown to Vienna to turn over Helmut Zemo, former Sokovian Colonel and current terrorist, to United Nations security and to leave their newest additions with their respective governments. They’d then high-tailed it back to New York and Helen Cho’s Cradle.  They’d stabilized Natasha first, of course, with an emergency surgery to stop the bleeding, but she’d still needed her spleen removed when they arrived, and she’d still needed six hours in the Cradle. She was currently drifting in and out of drugged consciousness in medical, and she  _ needed _ Clint.  Or at least, Clint thought she’d want him there, if she were awake enough to say so. 

 

Which meant Clint was staying right where he was, at least until she was up and about.

 

None of that did anything to take Clint’s mind off how goddamn  _ lonely _ he was, off how goddamn much he missed Bucky’s presence.

 

He’d left Lucky.

 

That, more than anything, had told Clint he wasn’t planning to come back - didn’t want to come back. 

 

Clint wished he knew what had happened, what he’d done - or didn’t do - what he could have done differently.

 

He’d gone so far as to ask Steve, whose face had tightened up in a combination of anger and regret and something else Clint couldn’t quite put a finger on but made Clint wish he hadn’t bothered.

 

“He just needed some time,” was all Steve would say on the subject. No, he didn’t know where Bucky had gone.  No, he didn’t know when, or even if, he’d be coming back. 

 

They’d been back in the tower for almost a week, Tony and Steve dancing around each other uncertainly, and Clint mostly at Natasha’s bedside until someone - usually Steve - herded him off to his quarters, to lie awake in his unfamiliar bed and not sleep, even with Lucky curled up at his feet.

 

His brain was mostly static-y buzzing at this point, the same combination of why, where, and when circling in his brain.

 

Clint had barely managed to admit to  _ himself _ that he loved Bucky, hadn’t even told the other man directly, and he was already gone.

 

Story of Clint’s life, honestly. 

 

He sighed as he dragged himself out of the tangled sheets and into a hot shower.  The warmth soothed some of the ache in his shoulder, as long as he didn’t try to move his arm at all, and he’d given up on shampoo three days ago.  Hot water would have to be enough, along with a cursory scrub of soap.

 

Plain bar soap, a careful avoidance of Bucky’s expensive, scented body wash, which he  _ hadn’t _ taken. 

 

He maneuvered his arm back into the sling that Dr. Cho had threatened him into, ranting about loss of mobility and an inability to  _ ever _ draw his bow again if he didn’t keep it immobile for at least a week and did  _ nothing _ strenuous with it for the next three months.  At least. 

 

She’d shown him the scan of his shoulder for context, pointing out the deep, unhealed tears in the tissue, and then given him a detailed-enough lecture on how it would be a life-long injury in such terrifying tones that Clint was actually obeying. 

 

The sling was supposed to come off today, this afternoon, and Natasha-

 

Well, Natasha had Steve, and she’d taken a few cautious steps yesterday evening, and Clint-

 

Clint was probably leaving in the next couple of days, because what else was he going to do?

 

When he walked into medical, Natasha was propped up on pillows and glaring at an innocent nurse.  Her brow was pinched, which meant she was probably in excruciating pain and unwilling to show it, but her gaze was clearer than it had been in days. 

 

Clearing his throat, Clint stepped fully into the room, attracting Natasha’s glare to himself so the nurse could make her escape.  

 

“Stop trying to terrify the staff with your murder glare,” Clint said, his voice scratchy from disuse.  He’d lacked even the desire to talk sometimes in the last few days, and he recognized that for the spiral into shame and depression that it was.  It’d been the same when he’d come down from the Battle of New York and had to think about what he’d done - what he’d been forced to do - while the city rebuilt around him.  He’d stopped talking to much of anyone for weeks. 

 

Natasha snorted delicately.  “Who’s  _ trying _ ? The staff  _ are _ terrified of me.”

 

“Fair point,” Clint admitted, pulling a chair up to the side of her bed as the nurse darted out of the room.  “How’re you feelin’?”

 

She looked him over critically, taking in the disheveled hair and dark circles under his eyes.  “Better than you, I bet. What happened,  _ latashka _ ?”

 

Clint shrugged, glanced away.  

 

She made a humming sound that Clint recognized as her brain turning. 

 

“I’ve been hurt before,” Nat said.  “Worse than this, actually.”

 

And that was true.  There was the time that she’d been shot and bled so badly Clint had thought she’d lose the leg, even more when he’d had to apply the tourniquet and half-carry her out of the a collapsing building. This was nothing in comparison. 

 

“So I don’t think that’s what the problem is,” she continued thoughtfully.  “Are you sleeping?”

 

“Yeah, Cap throws me out of here every night so he can pine at your bedside,” Clint very carefully did not answer the question.  He was sleeping, a bit. In short snatches of nightmare-ridden unconsciousness, from which he woke a shaking, shivering mess. 

 

He was a mess. 

 

“Now that is a point.  Where is Steve?” Natasha asked, glancing around the room, taking in the flowers that were so painfully, obviously  _ not _ from Clint in their picture-perfect, aesthetically pleasing arrangements.  They were, quite clearly, from someone who knew how to order flowers and how also to deliver them without crushing, dropping, or otherwise damaging them.  Or, on one memorable occasion, using them as a projectile weapon on a would-be mugger. 

 

The flowers in this room were from Steve, except for the ostentatious red and gold arrangement that could not have more obviously screamed Tony Stark unless he’d  _ actually _ put his name on them.

 

“You- you want me to get him?” Clint offered, half rising from his seat.  _ You want me to leave? _ He didn’t say.

 

Natasha’s face softened.  “I want you to rest, Barton, and I want to have a… conversation... with Rogers.”  She held her hand out and Clint tangled his fingers with hers, let her press their joined hands against his face.  “Everything will be fine,  _ latashka _ .  You’ll see.  Go rest, and see me later, hmm?”

 

The breath Clint drew in was deep, and shuddering, and smelled faintly of hospital soap and underneath that a scent that he distinctly associated with Natasha, something that was intrinsically her.  In combination with her voice, with her reassurance that she was okay - that he was okay - settled something deep inside of him, even if it didn’t quite settle  _ everything _ .  

 

He did as she asked, gently releasing her hand and heading back to his floor, where Lucky was waiting for him with a softly wagging tail.  Clint collapsed face first onto the couch and fell into the first dreamless sleep he’d had since they’d left for Austria. 

 

*

 

When he woke up, Natasha was sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch, running her fingers through his hair.

 

“What’re you doin’ here?” he slurred, turning over carefully so as not to jostle her. “Should be restin’ in medical.”  He scooted to the back of the couch, managing not to roll onto his sore shoulder, and made room for her against his chest.  She settled into the spot, leaning against him and sighing in relief. 

 

“I am not going to murder Steve,” she announced, making Clint blink up at her in confusion.  “But only because he is very good in bed.”

 

“That was more than I needed to know, Tash.”

 

She smirked at him.  “I think you’d be more interested if your heart were not otherwise invested.”

 

Clint hummed noncommittally.  Possibly true, but irrelevant.  “Why’re you not gonna kill him?”

 

“Because he has a large dick and takes instruction beautifully.”

 

“That’s- you know that’s not what I meant, and now I can never unknow that,” Clint complained, closing his eyes.  

 

“Be more specific next time.”

 

He laughed, a little, just a small thing, but it was the first laugh in far too long, and he knew Nat had done it on purpose.  “What did he do that you would typically kill him for?”

 

“He is being an idiot,” she said, disdainfully. 

 

“I’m an idiot,” Clint offered, unable to count the number of times she’d told him so.  He was an idiot with an idiot heart and a soft spot for Russian assassins, apparently.

 

“He’s being a different kind of idiot.”

 

Clint couldn’t help but smile.  “What kind of idiot is Captain America?”

 

“ _ Steve Rogers _ is the kind of idiot who opens his mouth and unintentionally hurts the people he cares about.”  She resumed scratching at his scalp, and Clint melted into the casual affection, letting his eyes drift shut.

 

“Everyone does that,” he murmured.  

 

She sighed.  “He’s the kind of idiot who opens his mouth and, by one degree of separation, hurts the people that  _ I _ care about.”

 

And that- well, that was a different story altogether.  Natasha was fiercely protective of the few people she was close to.  If Steve had hurt someone Natasha cared about, Clint was frankly surprised he wasn’t bleeding from the kneecaps right now. 

 

“Barnes doesn’t want to fight anymore,” she said, apropos of nothing, but it was still like a punch to Clint’s gut.  He sucked in a short, sharp breath.

 

“I know- I know that,” he said, opening his eyes.  “He told me that.” 

 

He’d told Clint a lot of things.

 

“Yes,” she agreed.  “He told Steve that, too.  Then Stark called, being Stark, and Steve- well Steve was being Steve.”  She huffed in irritation. “The two of them are like an old married couple, one that divorced because of irreconcilable differences but can’t stop trying to prove who was wrong, when clearly it was both of them.”

 

It wasn’t an inaccurate analogy.

 

“Barnes doesn’t want to fight,” she said again, “but Steve kept asking - kept  _ pushing _ \- talking about duty and responsibility, and who knows what else, until Barnes had to make a choice.  He either had to stay and help a man he’d always been loyal to - a man he broke seven decades of conditioning for - and do something stupid and dangerous and  _ unnecessary _ , or he had to leave because Steve was going to do it either way.”

 

She looked down at Clint, who was confused and miserable and trying to understand.

 

“Barnes left because of  _ Steve _ , you idiot.  Not because of you.”

 

Clint blinked back the burning in his eyes.  “You don’t know that,” he croaked.

 

“Yes,” she said, oh-so-gently.  “Yes, I do.” She cupped his jaw in her hand, but Clint couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and look at her face, to see whatever expression waited for him there.  “Go home,  _ latashka. _ I suspect you will find what you’re looking for there far sooner than you will find it here.”

 

But Clint couldn’t- he couldn’t just  _ leave _ , and he couldn’t-

 

“What if he’s not there?” he whispered, in the safety of the space between the two of them, where he had always been valued. 

 

“Then I will kill the both of them,” Natasha said, easily.  “Because they are too stupid to live.”

 

*

 

Dr. Cho let him remove the sling the next day, walking him through some  _ gentle _ range of motion exercises he could do on his own, along with another string of admonishments about how much and how fast he could start using the arm with any degree of effort.  She also gave him a small supply of anti-inflammatories and a very specific print out detailing exactly how much progress he could make before he could even  _ think _ about picking up his bow. 

 

Clint wasn’t actually sure he  _ was _ going to be picking the bow back up, but he endured the lecture with as much good humor as possible. 

 

“Can I go now?” he whined.

 

Which was to say, no good humor at all. 

 

Steve had come to his floor early in the morning, sheepish - like a troublesome golden retriever who’d chewed up a pair of sneakers - to apologize and explain, in halting and uninformative sentences, that Bucky had left because he was mad at Steve, and that Steve was sorry Clint had thought -

 

Well, whatever Clint had thought.

 

Steve was clearly not comfortable naming whatever that might be.

 

Tony had shown up not an hour later, not apologetic exactly, but with a nanotech sleeve for Bucky’s arm, which was the closest thing to an apology Clint figured they would ever get, along with the news that he and T’Challa were calling for Bucky’s complete exoneration.

 

“He’s not Bucky anymore, anyway,” Clint reminded him, even as he was slowly and painfully putting things back in his duffle bag.  

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony waved him off. “The notorious JBB, yeah I know.  Speaking of which, I had FRIDAY flesh that identity out a little bit, you know.  Just in case. Yours too, Chuck. Lemme know if JB wants some work done on the arm.”  And then he was gone - scuttling out of Clint’s space like he was expecting an electric shock. 

 

Clint rolled his eyes.

 

No one, he was convinced, was more emotionally dysfunctional than the Avengers. Or the former Avengers.  Whatever. 

 

Steve and Natasha flew him back to Tennessee.  Or rather, Steve flew under Natasha’s watchful eye.  Clint directed them to a small clearing on his property, about a quarter mile from the house.  Even in stealth mode, Bucky would probably hear their approach, but Steve landed uncloaked. Clint fully expected to be confronted by a suspicious former-assassin within moments of landing.

 

Hell, he  _ hoped _ they were going to be confronted by a suspicious former-assassin, because he still wasn’t convinced Bucky was even  _ here _ . 

 

Clint waved them off as soon as they landed anyway, because if Bucky wasn’t here, he wanted to have that breakdown in private.  Steve made an awkward, hand-wavy sort of motion that indicated he was either going to or was willing to get off the jet and help Clint, but Natasha’s hand on his chest stopped him dead in his tracks.

 

“I’ll uh- just- if you need-”

 

“Stop before you hurt yourself,” Natasha commanded, a small smile playing on her lips. “Call us if you need anything.”

 

Clint watched as the jet closed up and lifted off, his hand shading his eyes against the bright, late June sunshine and, with a sigh, hefted the small bag onto his good shoulder.  He only got about a hundred paces into the treeline before Bucky materialized like smoke and-

 

Clint dropped his bag.

 

He hadn’t really- he’d tried to believe Natasha and he’d tried to be optimistic while simultaneously protecting his heart but the reality was-

 

The reality was he hadn’t expected to see Bucky again, hadn’t expected him to be here, and now he was totally unravelling at the sight of the other man walking up to him with a smile on his face, like Clint was the best thing he’d seen all day. 

 

Lucky gave a happy  _ woof _ and wagged his way over to Bucky’s feet, and that, honestly, was the only reason Clint knew it wasn’t a hallucination.

 

“Took you long enough,” Bucky started, grinning.  “I figured you’d be back a week ago-” He stopped short, taking in the look on Clint’s face, the awkward way he was holding his shoulders.  “You’re hurt.”

 

It was a statement of fact.  Clint nodded. “Dislocated my shoulder,” he said.  “Killed two supersoldiers, though,” he added, wanting, more than anything to have Bucky’s approval to-

 

He wanted a goddamn  _ hug _ . 

 

Bucky stepped closer, reaching out for Clint.  He put his left hand on Clint’s hip, gingerly, like he was afraid he was gonna break, and wrapped his right hand around Clint’s jaw, exactly the same and completely differently than Natasha had done, just the day before.  His eyes flicked over Clint’s face, taking in the exhaustion and the uncertainty and whatever other emotions were playing across his expression.

 

“What’s wrong?” Bucky said, brow furrowed. 

 

“I didn’t-”  Clint had to clear the lump out of his throat.  “I didn’t know you were  _ here _ .”

 

“What?” Bucky said, pulling him closer.  “Sweetheart, where else would I be?”

 

A choked-off sob clawed its way out of Clint’s throat, a low, broken noise that he couldn’t help but make, and finally, finally Bucky pulled him into his arms, until Clint could bury his face in his shoulder and just  _ be _ .  He wrapped his good arm around Bucky’s waist and just held on, trying to keep a lid on his emotions, trying not to let his relief and his anxiety and, frankly, weeks of sleeplessness get to him.  

 

“What happened?” Bucky asked, bewildered. 

 

Clint couldn’t be fucked to raise his head from Bucky’s shoulder, or release his grip, or anything, really, except to keep holding on. “Steve said you needed time, I dunno, I just- Nat got stabbed and I couldn’t use my arm and you were  _ gone _ .”

 

“Fuckin’ Steve,” Bucky growled, tugging Clint down until they were both sitting on the ground, in the soft grass and the dappled sunlight, and took Clint’s face between his mismatched hands.  “I needed a break from  _ Steve _ ,” he emphasized. “I told him I was goin’  _ home _ .  I’m gonna kill him.”

 

“You can’t,” Clint let out a wet-sounding, hysterical laugh.  “Nat’s lettin’ him live ‘cos he’s got a big dick.”

 

Bucky blinked at him.  “When was the last time you slept?” he finally asked.

 

“Yesterday afternoon,” Clint said promptly.  He didn’t mention it had only been for about three hours.

 

“Right,” Bucky said, standing up and carefully pulling Clint to his feet.  “We’re goin’ inside and you’re gonna eat and then sleep and we can talk tomorrow.  But I’m here, Clint. I’m not goin’ anywhere, ‘less you make me go.”

 

“No,” Clint blurted.  “No, you- you can stay.  Stay as long as you like.  Stay forever.”

 

Bucky’s smile looked like sunshine, spreading across his face.  “I missed you, idiot.”

 

“I missed you too, asshole,” Clint said, but the insult came out more like an endearment.

 

Picking the forgotten duffle up off the ground, Bucky took Clint by his good elbow and led him up the incline to the house.  It looked just the same as Clint had left it, except that the little shed was now more shed-like than framework. He followed Bucky up the stairs and into the house, through the kitchen where he shed his boots, and into the bedroom, where Bucky flicked on the air conditioning unit and started helping him lose the t-shirt and jeans he’d struggled his way into that morning. 

 

He was down to his boxers, tucked in carefully on his right side, when Clint realized that Bucky was going to leave to do- whatever.  He didn’t even know what time it was, but the sun was still bright outside the window. Clint reached out with his right arm and snagged Bucky’s wrist.

 

“Don’t go,” he begged.  “Please.”

 

Bucky’s face turned soft and sympathetic.  “‘Course I’ll stay, if you want. Scoot over.”

 

Clint shifted and Bucky stripped down to his own shorts, crowding into the bed behind Clint, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

 

He was drifting off into the only comfortable sleep he’d had in weeks when Clint suddenly jerked awake, sure he was dreaming, only to have Bucky’s arm tighten around him. 

 

“I’m here,” Bucky said, low and intimate. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

 

“Kay,” Clint agreed, settling back down.  “Hey,” he said, remembering. “Hey, I gotta tell you something.”

 

Bucky shifted until he was leaning up and over Clint, until Clint could see his face.  “It’s not about Steve’s dick is it? ‘Cause I don’t wanna know.”

 

Clint snickered, punch drunk and comfortable and in love.  “Nah, I don’t care about Steve’s dick.”

 

“Okay good, that’d be awkward.  What do you gotta tell me that can’t wait ‘til after you’ve gotten some rest?”

 

Reaching up, Clint pulled Bucky’s head down until their lips were pressed together, the first kiss he’d had in far too long, something soft and chaste and heartbreakingly intimate, except Clint didn’t think he was gonna get his heart broken this time. 

 

“I love you,” Clint whispered, with his eyes still closed and their faces so close together that he could feel his lips brushing against Bucky’s as he spoke.  Gentle fingers brushed across his forehead, and nose, and cheeks.

 

“I love you too,” Bucky said, sure and confident and easy in a way that Clint had never been.

 

It settled into his chest, into that gaping place of uncertainty that Clint always felt but didn’t acknowledge, and soothed a thousand tiny hurts.  

 

And Clint slept.  


	16. Come Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does family even mean, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, your smutty, fluffy, feel-good epilogue, and you better believe the title is a sex joke. 
> 
> Merry Christmas Winterhawk fandom!!!

“Remind me again why we thought this was a good idea?” Clint grunted, as he screwed the tree base into position while Bucky held it steady.

 

“Because the alternative was to go to New York and have Christmas in the Tower a la Tony Stark.”

 

“Right,” Clint agreed. “Right, that’s… yeah, that’s a hard no. Okay. Fair. I think you can let it go now,” he added, tightening the last bolt.

 

Bucky released the tree and stood, uncertainly, for just a moment to make sure it was going to stay. It had already fallen over twice because Clint’s ramshackle tree base from years past wasn’t exactly in the prime of its life, and its ability to successfully hold a tree upright in a relatively straight position was precarious. After a moment, Bucky stepped back to eye it critically.

 

“I think it’s still listing a little to the left.”

 

Clint groaned, but reached to gingerly push the tree to the side and tighten the corresponding bolt. “Okay, now?”

 

“Good enough,” Bucky decided, and Clint climbed out from under the tree with as much care as he could muster and then stepped back, dusting needles off of his shoulders.  

 

“It looks - actually it looks pretty great,” Clint decided. Bucky had picked out - after a stupid amount of hours of research on the internet - a specific kind of fir tree that they’d had to drive _two goddamn hours_ to find, when Clint would have been perfectly happy to just cut something down in the woods, but okay. The result, he had to admit, was a good one. It was a nicely-shaped, softly-bristled evergreen that smelled, frankly, amazing. And fit perfectly in the corner of the living room by the entertainment center, where it would be just visible through the bay window. “Now what?” he asked.

 

Clint had enjoyed _maybe_ half a dozen Christmas trees in his life, of the personal variety anyway, and all of them had been fake. Most of them had been from his shitty childhood, but he’d had one miniature, bedraggled tree he’d sometimes dragged out for nostalgia in his Bed-Stuy apartment.

 

This was different. It _felt_ different. For one thing, it involved Bucky, which automatically increased the level of awesomeness by about a thousand percent.

 

For another thing, Clint was still boggling over the fact the he got to have this. They’d been back in Tennessee for almost six months and Clint was _still_ amazed. He got to have the house and the life and _Bucky_ and no one had come to take it from him or tell him it wasn’t his. Bucky hadn’t grown tired of him, hadn’t even made a whisper of a sound that indicated he had anywhere else he’d rather be, and Clint almost, _almost_ felt like it was his.  

 

“Now we let it fall,” Bucky said, “and we decorate it tomorrow.”

 

“Uh, I thought we didn’t want it to fall? It already fell twice.”

 

Bucky laughed, and Clint watched his face change and felt stupidly in love.  

 

“No it just - it has to settle and then we can decorate it. The branches have to relax or whatever.”

 

Clint hummed. “Okay. Alright, what’s next?” He glanced around the cabin, which was minimally decorated with the trappings of Christmas. There were stockings hanging from the entertainment center, and garlands around the doorways, and weird Santa tchotchke things that Bucky had found god-only-knew-where and stuck in strategic places. Soft Christmas music was playing in the background, and the cabin was toasty warm from the combination of the woodstove fire and strategically placed space heaters.

 

“Nothin’, I don’t think,” Bucky said, thoughtfully.  “Spare room’s all ready, right?”

 

They’d spent the last few months building an addition onto the side of the house, opposite their bedroom, where they could - theoretically - have guests. It had been a good project, something they’d decided on and done together, instead of something Clint wanted for _his_ cabin and instead something _they_ wanted for _their_ home.

 

Well, Clint had wanted somewhere Wanda could go, if all the shit with the Accords went south, and Bucky had wanted to be able to invite Steve and Natasha for a visit, once he was done being pissed off at him, so at any rate, a guest space had seemed warranted.

 

Clint had even learned to use the lathe well enough to make bed posts that he and Bucky had managed to turn into a sturdy bed.

 

They’d tested it to be sure. Clint had fond memories of checking to see just how well-built it was.

 

“Stop lookin’ like that,” Bucky ordered. “We just put clean sheets on that bed.”

 

Clint sighed despondently.

 

“You can help me put the mistletoe up,” Bucky offered, smirking. “We can test it out, make sure it’s an effective tactic.”

 

The mistletoe was, in fact, an extremely effective tactic.

 

It was effective in the front doorway, the bathroom doorway, the bedroom doorway, and placed strategically above the kitchen sink, the bar, and hanging from the light fixture in the living room.  

 

Clint added the last sprig to the casing above the bay window, where Bucky still liked to sit and read books, because he’d been trying, and failing, to instigate sex in the window seat for literal weeks.

 

“What is it with you and that window?” Bucky growled, crowding up behind Clint as he stretched to hang the little parasitic plant from a hook he’d screwed into the casing for just this occasion.

 

“I dunno,” Clint admitted. “Just somethin’ about it, I guess.” Something about how happy Bucky always looked sitting in it, something about the way he could look out of the window and see nothing but space, and nature, and things that belonged to them and only them. Something about the exposed privacy of it.

 

Clint probably had a bit of an exhibitionist streak.

 

“If we fuck here, I’m never gonna be able to sit here without gettin’ a hard on again,” Bucky complained, but he was already sliding his hands under Clint’s shirt and nibbling at the side of his neck.

 

“Sounds like a personal problem to me,” Clint breathed, tilting his head. He was already half-hard from all the enthusiastic mistletoe testing, and it never took much to put him in the mood with Bucky around anyway. They spent a solid thirty percent of their free time - of which they had plenty - fooling around.

 

Bucky shoved Clint’s shirt up and over his head, ignoring how it got tangled around his ears in favor of dragging his mouth down Clint’s spine.  “Just keep that in mind when you have to deal with it later.”

 

Because that would be such a chore. Clint snorted, tossing his shirt aside. He braced his hands on the glass, feeling the cold of the frozen air outside, even through the double-glazed window panes. The ground outside was frozen over with a thin layer of snow, just the right amount to feel like a holiday, giving everything an ethereal glow. He pressed his forehead against the window as Bucky’s mouth drifted lower, across his shoulders, tracing scars and shifting muscle, and making Clint’s skin break out in goosebumps.

 

“You have to clean the cushions,” Bucky added, and Clint snorted a laugh.

 

“Deal,” he said, already working out how he could avoid even making a mess on the cushions.  

 

“Don’t move,” Bucky ordered, pressing against Clint’s lower back until his spine was arched and he was framed by the early morning sunlight outside.  

 

Clint held still, listening as Bucky retreated, walking swiftly to their bedroom - probably, hopefully, in search of lube - and back, with barely enough time for Clint to start to feel chilled.

 

He traced his hands down Clint’s spine, almost soothing, except for the fact that Clint knew what all of this was leading up to. His left hand wasn’t as cool as it used to be - his old arm had started acting up during the summer, something about the heat and the way he was using it - “They kept me cooled between missions for a reason, babe.” - making it hitch and grind, and, surprisingly, it was T’Challa who had offered assistance.  

 

Wakanda, it seemed, was hoarding a plethora of advanced technology, amazing enough that even Tony would be impressed, if he were to ever get there, and it had taken T’Challa’s sister, Princess Shuri, only a few hours to manufacture Bucky a new, more versatile arm of dark-colored vibranium with gold accents that Clint… had a lot of thoughts on, most of which were x-rated.

 

Bucky started dragging Clint’s jeans down, and Clint forgot all his thoughts about the wonders of Wakandan technology, as he leaned against Clint’s back far enough that he could suck his earlobe into his mouth and wrap his arms around Clint’s chest, one hand teasing at his nipples and the other drifting lower to graze over his cock.

 

Clint shuddered.

 

“Why’re you still wearin’ clothes?” he griped, as the coarse denim and soft sweatshirt material dragged between them.  

 

“Got distracted,” Bucky murmured, squeezing Clint’s dick, and releasing him far too quickly. He eased out of Clint’s space, until the brush of his clothes was gone and he was anchoring Clint’s hip with his left hand while his right drifted around to stroke along his ass.

 

Clint shuffled, spreading his knees a little further and leaning forward, pressing into the touch.

 

Bucky huffed a soft laugh, but didn’t say anything. Instead, Clint heard the click of the lube, and then Bucky’s fingers were sliding between his cheeks, stroking against the tight whorl of muscle and making Clint groan. He tilted his head forward again, resting it against the glass.

 

“This what you wanted?” Bucky asked, slipping one finger in with the ease of plenty of practice.  “You want me to fuck you against the window?”

 

Clint shook his head, rocking back into the touch.  “Wanna ride you,” he gasped out, as Bucky added another finger.  

 

The sound Bucky made was part surprise, part pure, unadulterated want. He worked a third finger into Clint’s body, and Clint hissed a little at the burn before relaxing into the touch, practically slumping against the cold window. The temperature of the glass was a delicious contrast to the heat burning up his body from Bucky’s touch. Clint melted into it, bracing himself on his forearms as Bucky’s fingers moved inside of him.  

 

“Oh fuck,” he said, as pleasure shot up his spine.  “You naked yet?”

 

Bucky laughed, and the fingers slid away, leaving Clint empty and _wanting_.

 

There was a rustle of clothing, the sound of soft cotton hitting the floor and Clint maneuvered himself around, kneeling up on his heels to watch as Bucky stripped his jeans off, quick and efficient.

 

“Better?” Bucky said, holding his arms out and letting Clint look his fill.

 

“Almost,” Clint agreed, greedily taking in miles of smooth, pale skin. And muscles. And that _dick_.  “Get over here.”

 

Grinning, Bucky eased onto the bench next to Clint and there was some confused rearranging as Bucky stretched his legs out on the cushions and Clint clambered into his lap.

 

“Hi,” Clint said, grinning, as he settled himself over Bucky’s thighs. “Merry Christmas.”

 

“Are you my present?” Bucky asked, settling his hands on Clint’s hips.

 

Clint moved, sliding up until they were pressed together from hips to chest and slotted his mouth over Bucky’s in a deep, leisurely kiss. He slid his tongue against Bucky’s and nipped at his bottom lip, drew it into his mouth and sucked, teasing, until Bucky moaned.  

 

“Pretty sure you’re mine, actually,” he finally answered, already breathless, and then sank down onto Bucky’s cock.

 

Bucky’s head hit the casing around the side of the window as his eyes fell half-shut and his mouth dropped open. His fingers dug into Clint’s skin as he held himself still. Clint let his head fall forward, until it was resting on Bucky’s shoulder as he just breathed, surrounded and filled with Bucky and their house, and their tree, and the overwhelming feeling of _home_.

 

Clint wasn’t actually sure he’d ever had a home before.

 

His breath hitched.

 

He was getting emotional over a quick fuck in a window seat and what even -

 

“Hey,” Bucky said, shrugging a little until Clint lifted his head. He put his hands on Clint’s face and _looked_ at him, in that way that made Clint want to hide, made him not want to be seen, but he sat, unmoving, and let Bucky see him. “Hey, I love you.”

 

“I love you, too,” Clint said, something small and soft in the way he said it that he hadn’t intended. Bucky pulled him into another kiss, just as deep as before, none of the frenzied heat that Clint had expected - had intended - when he’d goaded Bucky into this. It was soft and sweet and intimate instead.

 

Then Bucky’s hand dropped to his lower back and coaxed him into a roll of his hips that had both of them gasping.  

 

Clint broke the kiss and leaned back, far enough to watch Bucky’s face as he lifted his hips and dropped back down, far enough to watch the way his chest and cheeks flushed and the muscles in his stomach tightened up with the effort to hold himself in place.  Clint did it again and again, chasing the pleasure of being filled and searching for just the right angle as Bucky tensed beneath him every time, his eyes dark and needy as he watched Clint move.

 

“You could help,” Clint gasped out, sweat trickling down his spine.  

 

Bucky laughed, and the sensation of it made Clint shudder.  He bent his knees obligingly though, and met Clint’s next downstroke with an upward motion of his own that made pretty lights go off behind Clint’s eyelids.  

 

“Oh, god,” Clint groaned, bracing himself on the casing behind Bucky’s head.

 

“Mmm, not quite,” Bucky argued mildly, tugging Clint down so he could kiss him again.  He shifted until he was holding Clint’s thighs in place and fucking up into him. Until Clint was a panting, writhing mess above him, his fingers digging into the wood as he was reduced to nothing except the sensation of Bucky’s cock moving inside of him, stroking up against his prostate, and the drag of his own dick against Bucky’s stomach.  Until Clint could barely even _breathe_ , much less kiss Bucky, just able gulp down air as their mouths pressed sloppily together.

 

Their pace was just this side of lazy, something inexorable about the way Bucky moved, thrusting up into Clint in sharp snaps and withdrawing slowly, the way he pulled Clint down to meet him.  He trailed his mouth down Clint’s jaw and throat, nipping at his collarbone, letting Clint feel the sharp scrape of stubble against his skin.

 

“You feel good,” Bucky told him, not nearly as breathless as Clint wanted.  “Hot and tight and like you’re mine.”

 

Clint sucked in a sharp, wheezing breath, felt tears prickle behind his eyes, pretended the words didn’t affect him the way they did. “Good,” he managed. He twisted his hips on the next thrust, making Bucky gasp this time.  

 

There weren’t any more words, just the movement of their bodies together, as Bucky scraped his nails down Clint’s back and Clint tangled his hands in the too-long strands of Bucky’s hair and pulled.  Clint gasped and writhed, his thighs burning and Bucky’s movements taking on a sharper, more desperate frenzy that meant he was getting close. He wrapped a hand around Clint’s cock, jerking in counterpoint to his thrusts and Clint lost the ability even to breathe as his body seized up and he came, clenching down on Bucky’s cock inside of him and painting both of them white.

 

Distantly he heard Bucky moan, the hand on his hip tightening as Bucky’s thrusts turned erratic and disjointed and he came too.

 

Clint slumped against him, uncaring about the mess, and just tried to remember how to be a person again.

 

Bucky’s left hand came up to scritch against Clint’s scalp and neck, soothing and comfortable and familiar.  “Have we fulfilled all your dirty little fantasies now?”

 

Humming in contentment, Clint pondered at least half a dozen _other_ dirty little fantasies he had, including one involving the swing on the front porch.  “Not even close,” he wheezed, slumping further into Bucky’s embrace.

 

The laugh he got in response was nearly silent, more a movement of Bucky’s chest than anything audible, and Clint smiled against his skin.

 

“Do any of them involve giving our friends a free show, or can we get up now?”

 

“Way to ruin the moment, asshole,” Clint grumbled, sitting up.

 

Bucky smirked up at him, clearly pleased with himself.  “Just sayin’. They’re gonna be here any time now.”

 

Clint thought, briefly, about Natasha finding them naked and covered in come, and decided that wasn’t particularly how he wanted to die, and climbed out of Bucky’s lap on legs that felt like jello.

 

“Cushions are still clean,” he pointed out, gleefully, and then danced out of reach when Bucky swiped at him.

 

“I can fix that,” Bucky growled, holding up a still-sticky hand, but Clint turned a pleading look on him and he rolled his eyes.

 

“Shower with me,” Clint offered, and Bucky capitulated, following him into the small bathroom with their clothes clutched in his metal hand.

 

*

 

Clint was still toweling his hair dry when everyone showed up.  He was sans aids, but looked up, startled, when Bucky headed for his boots and the back door.

 

 _They’re here_ , Bucky signed, shoving his arms into his coat.

 

Oh.  Bucky must’ve heard the jet.

 

The fact that they were flying down in the quinjet still baffled Clint, but, he supposed, it _was_ Tony’s prerogative.  And they didn’t have to drive to the nearest airport to pick anyone up, so that was a win.  And they could all leave sooner, also a plus.

 

Clint retreated to their bedroom for a decades-old Cyclones sweatshirt and his hearing aids.

 

When he padded back into the living room, barefoot under his jeans, Bucky was just returning with Steve, Natasha, Tony and Wanda on his heels.  Tony was talking at a speed approximating Mach 6, with Wanda rolling her eyes at him, and Natasha tucked up under Steve’s arm.

 

Clint blinked at her in surprise.

 

That was practically a declaration of marriage, for Natasha.

 

She rolled her eyes and mimed stabbing him.

 

“So this is the love-nest, huh?” Tony said, glancing around, taking in the exposed logs and cramped space.  “I like it. Very rustic.”

 

“Tony is flying back tomorrow,” Natasha interrupted, shooting the other man a glare.  “He has plans with Pepper.”

 

Tony beamed, and Clint shook his head.  What Pepper Potts saw in Tony Stark, Clint would never know.

 

Then again, he had no idea what Bucky saw in him, so he had no room to talk.

 

“But Steve and I are staying the weekend, as long as that’s okay.  Wanda, too.”

 

Clint grinned.  It was like-

 

Ruefully, Clint admitted to himself that this was his _family_.  Even Tony, for all his verbal diarrhea and emotional instability, was like the weird uncle everyone liked but you were never sure what outrageous thing was going to come out of his mouth next.  And Wanda was the adorable and dangerous sister he’d never had and Nat-

 

Well, Nat was Clint’s platonic heterosexual soulmate and he had no _idea_ how to fit that into a classic family dynamic, but it was okay, it worked for them.  

 

He should probably give Steve some kind of shovel talk, actually, but since Bucky had called him up about two days after Clint had arrived back from the ill-fated Siberia mission and threatened him with grievous bodily harm in a variety of interesting and anatomically-impossible ways, Clint figured he got a pass.

 

Plus, Natasha needed no help killing a man.

 

“Hey guys,” he said.  “Glad you could make it.”

 

“Buck,” Steve complained, from where he’d wandered into the living room, “the tree’s not even decorated.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes.  “We’re gonna do it tomorrow, Rogers, we just put the damn thing up today.”

 

“We got distracted,” Clint stage-whispered to Natasha, just to see Steve go red in the face.  

 

“Anyway,” Tony said, loudly. “What’s for dinner?”

 

“Well, goose is traditional,” Clint said, shifting to make room as Wanda squeezed herself into his side. “But I dunno how to cook one, so we’re having turkey instead. And mashed potatoes, stuffing, yadda yadda.  Bucky made pie.”

 

Steve, Natasha, and Tony all turned horrified looks on him.  

 

“ _You’re_ cooking?” Tony said, eyes wide.

 

“Bucky _baked_?” Steve added.

 

Wanda smirked up at Clint, and he winked at her.

 

“Wouldn’t be Christmas without food poisoning,” Clint said, just to be a shit. “Anyway, let me show you where to put your stuff.”

 

Steve and Natasha were getting the coveted guest room, because Clint was _not_ going to listen to them fuck for three straight days, nor did he have any desire for them to listen to _him_.  

 

“Super-soldier tested,” Bucky smirked at Steve as they dropped bags in the room, while Steve turned the color of a stop sign and squawked.

 

Clint had, begrudgingly, bought a new couch when he and Bucky had decided to invite everyone down for Christmas festivities, and it pulled out into a surprisingly-comfortable bed, which was where Wanda would be sleeping, and Tony- well.

 

Tony was getting the camping cot, because Tony.

 

Sam was spending the holiday with his family, because, in his words, “I am not spending dysfunctional Christmas dinner with you idiots when I could have my mama’s dressing.”  And Vision was apparently on super-hero duty, because what did holidays mean when you were a robot?

 

At two o’clock Clint put the turkey in the oven, slathered in butter and wrapped in an oven bag.

 

At six o’clock they sat down with dubious expressions to a folding table and chairs that Bucky had produced from somewhere in the basement and expanded in the empty space that ran between the kitchen and living area and the short steps up to the bathroom and bedroom.

 

At six-fifteen, all dubious looks were gone, replaced with six people stuffing themselves with delicious food.

 

“Okay,” Tony said, when he finally leaned back and dropped a napkin on the table.  “Who taught Barton to cook? Because the last time he tried to cook in the tower, he was scrambling eggs and the pan never recovered.”

 

“Barton taught himself to cook,” Clint grumbled, stabbing at his pie.

 

“I wanna know who taught _Bucky_ to cook,” Steve said, on his third helping of said pie.  It was a good thing Bucky had made three. “Because the last time Bucky tried to cook was in 1945, and the Commandos never recovered.”

 

“Oh you’re one to talk, punk.  You’re still boiling shit like it’s 1936,” Bucky snarked.  “Clint taught me to cook.”

 

“And I maintain that I want to know who taught Clint to cook,” Tony reiterated.

 

“Nobody,” Clint answered, scraping the cherry filling off his plate with a fork.  “I had to eat. Cooking occurred. It just takes practice.” Bucky squeezed his knee under the table, and Clint realized his tone sounded far more bitter than he’d intended.  

 

“The food was very good, Clint,” Wanda said. She stood up, gathering plates into a towering stack that Clint was sure she was using magic to balance.  “And because you cooked, we will wash the dishes.” She gave Tony a look.

 

Tony opened his mouth to argue, caught sight of Natasha’s face, and closed it again.  Both he and Steve got up to follow Wanda, though Clint was sure Steve had gotten a sharp jab from Nat, based on his wince.

 

The cabin was small, so there was no privacy as the three of them made their way to the kitchen, leaving Clint, Bucky, and Natasha around the table, but Tony and Steve were playfully arguing loudly enough to give the illusion of it.

 

Natasha eyed Clint and Bucky critically, before breaking out into the kind of smile that Clint had seen so very rarely on her face he wasn’t sure it was real.  She leaned over and gave Clint a peck on the forehead. “Happy Christmas,” she said, and straightened to standing. “And you’re welcome,” she added, sauntering away with the remains of the pie.

 

Clint rolled his eyes.

 

He took it back, Natasha was like the annoying older sister who thought she knew everything.  He glanced over at Bucky, who looked soft and happy as he watched their friends argue in the kitchen and splash water at each other and generally be nuisances.

 

Okay, maybe Natasha _did_ know everything.  He leaned on Bucky’s shoulder for a minute, content in a way he could never remember feeling before.

 

“Hey Buck, can we decorate the tree now?” Steve called, stepping back from where Tony was getting ready to throw a cup full of water at him.

 

Bucky huffed in put-on frustration.  “The branches gotta settle, Rogers, what kinda heathen are you?”

 

“We can put the lights on though, right?”

 

Pressing a quick kiss to the side of Clint’s head, Bucky stepped away, meandering into the living room and digging packages of white twinkle lights out of the plethora of Christmas decorations they’d bought at the hardware store.

 

“Yeah, yeah.  We can put the lights on,” Bucky agreed, passing a box to Steve as Tony settled himself into the window seat to watch.

 

Clint snickered.

 

Okay, this was family.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thank yous to so many people - but especially to the people who have stuck with this story from beginning to end, especially from a new, unknown author. Thanks for taking a chance on me! Special appreciation to all the people who have commented on every. single. chapter. Y'all are my heroes!! 
> 
> And finally, a thousand years of gratitude to ChronicWhimsy who graciously dipped her toes into this fandom to beta read this final chapter, since Clara is in Hell this week with family shenanigans.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to Clara for the endless hand-holding, cheerleading, and beta reading. All mistakes are still my own. 
> 
> Also, yes, I ripped the fic title from a Hozier song. 
> 
> In fact, I ripped all the chapter titles from songs too, and bonus points to anyone who figures out the method to my madness.
> 
> Hit me up on the Tumblr! [Kangofu-cb](https://kangofu-cb.tumblr.com/)


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